


The Revolutionary and the Usurper

by Encairion



Series: The Revolutionary and the Usurper [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Incest, M/M, Underage characters involved in sexual situations (non-explicit)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 17:19:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 28
Words: 166,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3075395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Encairion/pseuds/Encairion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of the boy who stood up to change the world, and the half-brother who wanted to stand at his side, but if he couldn’t have that, let him have everything else.</p><p>The tale of the Genius and the Shepherd as they were known by some, the Madman and the Traitor by others, but who were they in each other’s eyes?</p><p>The tale of Fëanor and Fingolfin.</p><p>“I refuse to accept the Noldor are bound to the starless midnight of these petty lives the Valar have boxed us into.  I refuse to accept we will never walk through these shadows and into the bright daybreak of freedom!” –Fëanor in <i>The Revolutionary and the Usurper</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:
> 
> *On ages/years:  I’m not getting into the headache that is trying to untangle Elven ages in the Years of the Trees.  So for the purpose of my sanity, all ages/time spans will be converted to not only Sun Years, but Human Ages i.e. Fingolfin is stated to be seven = a Human seven-year old.  I hope this will also make the story less confusing for the readers as well.
> 
> *Fëanor’s quote in the summary is inspired by a quote by Martin Luther King Jr.
> 
> *This story if part of my ongoing [The Price ](http://efiction.esteliel.de/viewseries.php?seriesid=37) series, however, I believe it can stand alone without undo confusion for the reader.
> 
> *I’ve been influenced by many incredibly talented writers through the years, and I’d like to give acknowledgment to the ones who have had the biggest impact on the way I see Fëanor and/or Fingolfin:
> 
> [Spiced Wine](viewuser.php?uid=3) in her peerless works that were the foundation of my perception of both these characters every bit as much as the Silmarillion was.
> 
> [cheekybeak](viewuser.php?uid=364) who I had such insightful discussion with on Fëanor.
> 
> [lintamande](http://lintamande.tumblr.com/) and [an-animal-imagined-by-poe](http://an-animal-imagined-by-poe.tumblr.com/) who both have such fascinating portrayals of Fëanor and Fingolfin I can’t help but eat up every word.
> 
> [Urloth](viewuser.php?uid=112) whose work has thoroughly enchanted me.
> 
>  

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 1  
  
Father straightened out the collar of Fëanor’s tunic, and tucked Fëanor’s unbound hair back behind his ears. Father had attempted to get Fëanor to sit still long enough to let the maid braid it, but Fëanor didn’t have the patience for such a pointless task. Why did Father insist Fëanor must always look his best when they visited Mother? Mother wouldn’t care if his hair hung loose.  
  
“Now,” Father looked down at Fëanor with that serious expression he always wore when they visited Mother. “You are to be on your best behavior. I trust you’ve learned your lesson from last time?”  
  
“Yes, Father.” Father had discovered Fëanor jumping on Mother’s bed, and given him a tongue lashing that still rang in Fëanor’s ears.  
  
Why hadn’t Father heard Mother’s merry laughter? Fëanor made Mother happiest when he was making her laugh. She’d told him so; whispered it in his ear when Father wasn’t there because it was their secret. Theirs alone.  
  
“You are to conduct yourself with decorum at all times. You are to obey when you’re given a direction. You are to keep your voice at a moderate level, and not upset your mother with your exuberance. Are you even listening to me, Fëanor?”  
  
Fëanor’s eyes snapped back to his father’s face. He bit his lip and gave the truth as he always did. “No, Father.”  
  
Father scowled, and Fëanor’s belly squirmed. But he’d heard all this before! And wasn’t the way Laurelin’s light hit the hall’s mirror fascinating? Look at the pattern the light made on the floor, as if it had _bounced_ off the mirror…  
  
“Fëanor!”  
  
Fëanor’s head whipped back to his father. Father’s mouth pinched, and Fëanor ducked his head. He clutched the books he brought to read Mother closer to his chest, shoulders curling in around them. He’d disappointed Father. He hated disappointing Father.  
  
“Fëanor,” Father’s voice dropped gentle but weary between them. “I know it is hard for you to meet these expectations, but I need you to try. Your mother may not always seem so, but she’d very tried and needs her rest.”  
  
Fëanor’s toe drug against the stone slabs. He meant to listen to Father, he really did, only look at that crack in the masonry? Why had that happened? Had a heavy force been dropped directly onto this section of the floor? That seemed unlikely in the palace halls. So was this a flaw in the craftsmanship, and how had it come about? His eyes wandered over the stones surrounding it, examining the work, seeking out more flaws—  
  
“Fëanor!”  
  
He’d made Father frown again. “I’m sorry, Father.”  
  
Father ran a hand down his face. “I was telling you that you only have an hour with your mother today.”  
  
“Why?” Fëanor’s whole attention riveted to his father’s face. An hour, only one turning of the sand-holder! How would he tell Mother everything he’d discovered since yesterday, read her his new favorite book, think of lots of clever things to say to make her laugh, and hear her sing while her beautiful hands (the most beautiful in the whole world) embroidered as she let Fëanor rest his head right over her heart so he could count her heartbeats and measure them against his own?  
  
Father sighed. “A Teler healer has come up to see your mother; they will have the afternoon together.”  
  
Fëanor’s brows pinched. “But you’ve already had other Teleri healers come to see Mother, and the Noldor and Vanyar ones too. Why did you get another?”  
  
“Because I did.”  
  
“But why?”  
  
“Because your mother is tired, Fëanor!” His father’s voice grew thorns.  
  
Fëanor bit back a dozen other ‘why’s.’ He’d asked Father why Mother was sick a hundred times, but not one of Father’s answers contented Fëanor. If only Fëanor was older, then he would be able to heal Mother himself, he was sure of it. One day he would know everything, and Mother would never be sick again.  
  
Father let out a heavy sigh, and placed his big hand on Fëanor’s shoulder. “These are things for me to worry about, Fëanor, not a child of your years. Now come, let us go in to see your mother.”  
  
Fëanor followed his father, but the questions had not been satisfied. They never were.  
Mother rested on the bed. Her silver hair splayed behind her on the pillow. Fëanor always associated Mother and Bed; he’d rarely seen her outside of it.  
  
Laurelin’s light spilled directly onto Mother’s bed from where it rested under the window. Only sheer fabrics of white silk hung from the bed’s posts, doing nothing to block the light. The Vanyar healers and the Noldor were in agreement that Mother should spend as much time in the Tree light as possible.  
  
Everyone knew the Tree Light contained strengthening agents. That was what everyone said, but Fëanor didn’t _know_. The question of why had not been answered to his satisfaction. When he’d asked Father, the healers, Mother, everyone he could pin down, why the Tree’s light had these powers, they said the Valar had told them so. But that wasn’t an answer. Fëanor needed to _understand_ , but no one would explain it!  
  
Fëanor approached the bed with Father. Needlework hung lax in Mother’s hands. Her eyelids had slid closed. Fëanor did not find this alarming. Mother always slept with her eyes closed. Father said it was because it helped her rest better. Fëanor was unsatisfied with this explanation as well. Why, why, why? And why would no one answer his why’s?  
  
Mother stirred when Father brushed a strand of hair back from her brow. She blinked up at him, a slow smile lifting her face. “Hello.”  
  
“Hello.” Father smiled back. The smile pushed back all the lines that had worked themselves into his brow and around his eyes.  
  
Fëanor waited, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes darting over pieces of his mother: her shinny hair, her pretty eyes, her smiling mouth, her hands lifting pale and slender like bird wings from their rest in her lap. All the rules Father had gone over with him in the hall flew out of his head when Mother’s eyes slid passed the width of Father’s shoulders to rest on him.  
  
She had smiled for father. She beamed for him. Her face lit up like a match had been struck under her skin, and her eyes were all for him.  
  
Her arms lifted, and Fëanor flew into they, leaping up onto the bed to bury his face in her neck, wind his hands through her hair and inhale the smell and warmth of her. She made him feel special and loved as even Father never could, not like Mother did.  
  
He squeezed Mother, laughing into her neck. He was so happy to be with her! She rocked him. “My darling boy,” she kissed his temple. They clung, heart-to-heart, for a long moment before Mother pressed her mouth into his ear and whispered, “Your father looks worried, my darling. Let’s follow his rules until it’s just us. They comfort him.”  
  
Fëanor didn’t want to let Mother go, but it was only until they were alone. It was their special secret, just between them, that Mother laughed like a little girl when Fëanor’s bouncing feet sent her bobbing on the bed, and he would fling himself down on the bed to be caught by her and his face covered in kisses.  
  
He pulled back to rest his head on her shoulder, snuggled up into her side, arms not letting her go.  
  
“I’ll leave you two together, then.” Father leaned down and pressed a kiss into Mother’s brow, before kissing Fëanor too with a ‘Try to be good.’ Fëanor always tried.  
  
Fëanor watched his father walk out of Mother’s room with a downturned mouth. “Wipe that frown away.” Mother’s thumb smoothed the wrinkle out of his brows. “And tell me everything you’ve been up to in the whole day since I saw you last, my darling.”  
  
The shadow flew out of his heart. He hugged Mother closer and told her everything. But they only had an hour together, so little time when Fëanor wanted all day, every day, forever. Mother asked him to read to her, and he collected one of the books he’d left on the floor in favor of his mother’s arms.  
  
He climbed back up on the big bed and nested against his mother’s chest. She pulled him close, her arms going around him to help balance the book on his crossed knees. He’d found this book on snakes in the library when he’d been conducting his first ‘research project.’ When he complained to Mother about how no one would answer his questions of why fish couldn’t breathe without water, she said he should find his own answers, for those would be the most satisfying. So Fëanor had.  
  
Fëanor read aloud to Mother, and when he didn’t know one of the words she helped him. It wasn’t a baby’s book filled with pictures after all, though it had a few Fëanor liked examining (not because he was a baby, mind, even if he didn’t understand the big words).  
  
Father found them like this when the hour was up. Fëanor kept reading to the end of the page while Father came to stand at the edge of the bed beside them. Fëanor closed the book with the respect Mother had taught him to treat them with, and looked up.  
  
He bit his lip, searching his father’s face, seeking approval. Did Father think he read well like Mother did? Fëanor couldn’t keep himself from fidgeting when the maids braided his hair; he couldn’t always keep his mind on what Father was saying; he couldn’t always keep himself from bouncing and laughing and running like a ‘little wild thing’ through the palace, but he was clever, wasn’t he? Was Father proud of him?  
  
But Father frowned again. Fëanor’s face fell down to the bottom of his toes with his heart. “Were you…reading?”  
  
Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the insult he heard in the words. Of course he could read! He wasn’t like those other children his age who were still sitting at their nurses’ knees listening to baby rhythms and stumbling over their speech!  
  
“When did you learn to read? It won’t be time for me to find you a tutor to start learning your letters for at least another year!” Father shook his head at him.  
  
Fëanor didn’t know if the expression on his father’s face was disappointment or wonder. Why couldn’t Father wear his face like Mother did, with everything right there on the surface? Father kept so much back, so much hidden.  
  
Fëanor scowled. Hadn’t Father been listening when Fëanor told him the fable he’d read of the star-lake? “I taught myself. I told you about the Adventures of Ramun the Brave I was reading. Weren’t you listening?” His voice lashed out with all the hurt he felt at the implication his father had either deemed his words not worthy of remembering, or never worth listening to to begin with.  
  
“But I thought you’d heard the story from one of the minstrels…” Father’s eyes slid over Fëanor’s head to Mother.  
  
“I _told_ you I’d read it myself!” Fëanor’s shifted about on the bed, unable to contain his agitation to his heart. Mother ran a gentle hand down his back and the pricking against his skin, the burn of his eyes, relented. He melted into the palm of Mother’s hand.  
  
“I thought you were ‘reading’ the pictures…” Father’s hand rose in an empty gesture.  
  
Mother’s voice came soft but firm behind him, her hand not pausing in its work on his back. “It sounds like our little boy is first in reading as he was in talking and walking. Not such a surprise, is it, Finwë?”  
  
Father’s frown smoothed out, and his mouth turned up in a smile as he gazed down at Fëanor. “Taught yourself, did you? An impressive accomplishment. I’m proud of you, my clever boy.” Father’s hand came to rest in Fëanor’s hair, and Fëanor turned into it. His mouth stretched wide and joyful as the bursting in his heart. He’d made his father proud.  
  
*  
  
Father’s hand held Fëanor’s in its large, warm grip. Fëanor squeezed his father’s fingers, drawing closer as they made their way down Lórien’s paths.  
  
Father had sat him down to explain that Mother was very sick and needed to go get better in Lórien. Fëanor had tried to ask why Mother wasn’t getting better, what was wrong with her, when she was coming back, when he could see her again, but Father hadn’t answered any of his questions.  
  
“Hush now,” Father had said. “Don’t be afraid, everything will be well.” Father had pulled Fëanor into his arms and wiped tears Fëanor hadn’t even realized he’d been crying while the spew of endless questions piled out. Fëanor had clung to Father, clung and clung like he’d never let go. Father hadn’t let him go until Fëanor stopped sobbing, even when Fëanor tasted his father’s tears along with his.  
  
Fëanor didn’t understand, and he _needed_ to understand. Father’s hand squeezed Fëanor’s back. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you, my son.”  
  
Only after the words cleared out the blockage in Fëanor’s throat did he realize he’d been struggling to breath.  
  
“Come here,” Father picked him up, and Fëanor wrapped his legs about his father’s waist as he hadn’t done since he was a baby. He curled his arms about his father’s neck and lost his face in his father’s hair. “Everything will be as it once was. Just wait, Fëanor, your mother will be home soon.” Fëanor burrowed deeper into his father, sniffling. “Let’s go visit your mother, hmm?”  
  
Fëanor kept his face pressed into his father’s neck as Father took them through Lórien’s winding paths. Fëanor didn’t look up until his father’s steps trailed to a stop, the last ones dragged out like Father hauled lead balls behind him.  
  
Mother lay upon a bed of green grass below the hanging silver branches of a willow tree. Her hair had been arranged about her like the flowing light of a star. “Mother!” Fëanor wiggled until Father set him down on his feet, and then dashed to Mother’s side.  
  
“Mother, I’m here!” He flew into her side, pressing his nose into her neck and wrapping his arms about her waist. But her arms did not rise to hold him back, and her eyes remained sealed shut. “Mother, it’s me, it’s Fëanor!” Fëanor shook his mother’s shoulder, trying to wake her. But she did not stir. “It’s me, Mother, it’s your Fëanor!”  
  
“Fëanor, remember what I told you.” Father’s hand settled on his shoulder, trying to draw Fëanor away from his increasingly panicked shaking. “Your mother’s spirit dwells away from her body for a time while she regains her strength.”  
  
“But…” Fëanor remembered his father’s words, only he’d forgotten them for Mother looked only a moment from awaking. “Mother,” he shook off his father’s hand, and bent close again. He took his mother’s face in his palms, stroking her cheeks. “Mother it’s me, Fëanor. Please wake up, Mother, it’s me.”  
  
“She will not wake, Fëanor, I have…I have tried.” His father’s voice broke, and Fëanor looked up from his desperate searching for flickers of life in his mother’s face. “She will not come. She…she needs her rest.”  
  
“She will wake up for _me_. You’ll see.” Fëanor turned back to his mother, face set like a stone. Mother would come back, if only a moment, from her rest. She would want to take Fëanor in her arms and kiss his cheek and sing to her darling boy.  
  
Fëanor threw his arms about his mother’s torso, and laid his head down upon her breast. He started talking, he had so much to tell her, weeks and weeks worth of adventures while she’d been away and Father had refused to take Fëanor to see her because Fëanor was ‘too young.’ Fëanor worked hard to relay his days with every touch of cleverness that made her laugh and tickle Fëanor’s neck.  
  
He sought out her heartbeat, listening for its familiar thump thump thump, but it beat slow and faint in her chest. It no longer matched his own.  
  
“Mother.” His arms clutched at her like a lifeline, and his voice wobbled, eyes burning with tears. “Wake up, please, please, wake up, Mother!”  
  
“Come away, Fëanor.” Father’s hands sought to draw him away again.  
  
“No!” Fëanor latched onto his mother’s arms and tried to make them work. He wrapped them about him, but they flopped back onto the grass, limp.  
  
“Come away,” Father tugged him more instantly.  
  
“No, no, I want my mother!” Fëanor thrashed against his father’s arms caging him, pulling him back and back and back. Fëanor screamed and writhed, twisting, and beating his fists against his father’s chest. But Father would not let him go.  
  
Father’s arms wrapped tight about him. He rocked Fëanor, hands cradling Fëanor’s skull against his chest. “Hush, my son, hush.”  
  
Fëanor screamed into the fabric of his father’s tunic, grasping great handfuls, his whole body shaking. He wanted his mother!  
  
The violence of his grief could not last, and weariness dropped against his eyelids. He’d screamed and cried himself dry, and now curled against his father’s chest with only hiccupping sobs still rocking his body at intervals.  
  
“You mother will come home soon; she’ll not suffer to be long parted from her darling boy. Soon, my son, just a little longer.” Father kissed his brow, combing the hair back from Fëanor’s face.  
  
Fëanor wiped his nose with his sleeve and looked up to meet his father’s gaze. “Why is she so tired? I don’t understand, Father.”  
  
“Oh, my son.” Father brushed the tearstains from Fëanor’s cheeks. “She will be home soon.”  
  
“But why couldn’t she get better?” Fëanor grew agitated again. Why would no one tell him why his mother was sick? No one else’s mothers got sick, only his. How would he learn how to fix her if no one told him what was wrong?  
  
Father sighed, and pulled Fëanor’s face into his shoulder. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”  
  
Fëanor’s hands clenched into fists on his father’s tunic, but he would get no better answer no matter how he asked. He would just have to discover the truth himself. Mother had taught him about researching to find his answers. Fëanor would read every book in the library, that would teach him how to heal Mother.  
  
Father let Fëanor up so they could walk together from Lórien. Father picked up his hand as Fëanor looked back at his mother’s body one last time. He would find a way to wake her up again. (Just wait, Mother, I’ll make you better again).  
  
Time passed and Mother did not come home like Father promised, and though Fëanor read and read, he couldn’t discover a way to fix her.  
  
Fëanor stopped visiting Mother first. He couldn’t find her in that shell lying still and unresponsive on the grass, perfect as a doll, and just as lifeless. She wasn’t there; she was somewhere he couldn’t reach, deep in Mandos’ Halls. Her eyes never opened no matter how he pleaded. He couldn’t bear to see her lying there, perfectly beautiful and perfectly motionless.  
  
He’d seen a bird die once. It flew into the window with a thunk that had his head jerking up from the words ensnaring him. He’d risen to explore the source of the sound and found the robin’s body on the stones of the garden’s terrace, a little fluff of feathers scattered about it. He’d thought it was only injured, having never seen anything die before, and had crouched down beside it. He’d taken its delicate bones into the palm of his hand, and stroked the soft down of its chest, cooing to it. But it did not stir. It lay broken in his hands; its big, gassy eyes as empty as Mother’s body.  
  
Father didn’t ask Fëanor to come with him when he visited Mother. Father had never wanted Fëanor to see Mother’s empty body, but all the advice flowing out of mouths that didn’t know what they were talking about said Fëanor should see Mother so he could understand and _accept_.  
  
Father visited Mother every month, and every time he left Fëanor in Tirion, alone. Fëanor spend every day he was away terrified Father would not come back. Mother had gone away to Lórien and not come back. What if Father decided one day he didn’t want to come back to Fëanor either?  
  
Father stopped talking about Mother before he stopped visiting her. Fëanor didn’t want to stop talking about who she’d been and would be again when she returned. He wanted to hear the story of how Father and Mother met for the hundredth time, and the one of their wedding day, and the day Mother told Father she was going to have Fëanor.  
  
He wanted to hear about Mother’s favorite color (though he knew this too, but he wanted Father to tell him again, like the very first time). He wanted to remember her laugh with Father, the sound of her footsteps in the corridor, the way her tongue stuck out, just a little, when she concentrated on her work, and what she’d looked like under the starlight of Endor.  
  
Fëanor wanted to keep her memory alive so when she returned she would slip back into their lives as if she’d never left.  
  
Father stopped talking about her by degrees. As the words wound down, revolving around Fëanor and Míriel’s time together, no longer speaking of Father’s own joys with her, the bitterness crept into the words. One day there were no more words, no more stories, nothing but ‘Don’t you know that story by heart, yet? Let’s speak of something else,’ and when Fëanor pressed, yearning, ‘That’s enough, Fëanor.’  
  
The worst was when Fëanor shared his plans of how he would find a way to heal Mother when he grew up (Just wait a little longer, Mother, I’ll find a way to fix you). Father’s brow bent dark and heavy. He didn’t often raise his voice to Fëanor, but he would then. He would tell Fëanor to stop living in the past, before he would walk away, shutting Fëanor down and out.  
  
Fëanor learned to keep these ambitions close to his chest. His father would see, when Fëanor had healed Mother, that he’d been right all along, but for now Fëanor did something he rarely did: he held his peace. He couldn’t risk losing his father, and those times his father grew cold and distant were enough to send Fëanor panicking.  
  
Father clung to him, and Fëanor clung back. Since Mother left, there was not one evening they did not spend in each other’s company, but for the ones Father shut him out of. Those nights Fëanor lay awake long into the night, alone, cold, and afraid.  
  
There came a time Father stopped visiting Mother’s body as well. Fëanor did not grow alarmed until Father came back from yet another trip away in which he left Fëanor alone, and slumped into his favorite chair to tell Fëanor what he’d done.  
  
Father had gone to the Valar, seeking either Mother’s final return or permission to marry another. Now a council was to be called where Mother’s fate would be decided.  
  
Fëanor had raged, of course he had raged, how _dare_ his father do this to Mother? What happened to waiting for forever and then another because Mother was the beat within Father’s heart? That was what Father had said when he’d told Fëanor the story of their love, and Fëanor had believed him. But Father had lied about Mother coming home, what else had Father lied about? Didn’t he care that Fëanor _needed_ Mother? Did he love them at all?  
  
He learned the Valar’s verdict before he got his hands on the scribes’ transcripts. Fëanor had tried to make Father let him go to the council but Father said he was too young. Fëanor had been left, alone, with tutors while Father rode off to Valmar.  
  
Fëanor had long since learned the real reason his mother was sick. Though his father had labored to keep him ignorant as long as possible, tongues would wag. But he’d not been prepared for the Valar’s words staring black and final against the parchment.  
  
He’d known the Valar ruled to keep his mother’s spirit entombed within Mandos’ Halls until the Breaking of the World, but to read the words…  
  
Fëanor’s fingers pressed white into the words of Manwë: _“So she must remain until the end of the world. For from the moment that Finwë is joined in marriage all future change and choice will be taken from her and she will never again be permitted to take bodily shape. Her present body will swiftly wither and pass away, and the Valar will not restore it. For none of the Eldar may have two wives both alive in the world.”*_  
  
  
His hand clenched upon the scroll. It didn’t matter, because Father would never marry again. Father had been taken with a fit of loneliness, that was all (Why wasn’t Fëanor enough to chase the loneliness away?). But Father would remember how much he loved Mother; he would put all this nonsense of remarriage out of his head. He wouldn’t _really_ marry another. He’d wait for Mother’s return just as Fëanor did. He had to.  
  
  
Fëanor kept reading, determined to shove the sickness in his gut aside. The fear preyed upon him though, and it was a struggle to make sense of the words he read, but he pressed on. He would not be overcome!  
  
  
Words leapt out at him, spoken by Ulmo: _“I hold that the marring of his birth comes of the Shadow, and is a portent of evils to come. For the greatest are the most potent also for evil.”*_  
  
Marring of his birth  
  
The Valar spoke of _him_ , of Fëanor. He couldn’t…how could—what did this mean? What were they saying?  
  
Fëanor’s fingers flipped with feverish intensity through the rune dictionary he kept at hand for those words yet beyond his knowledge. He didn’t know what all the words meant, but the picture, though blurry, sent his hands shaking.  
  
Portent: An indication of something important or calamitous about to occur; an omen.  
  
Potent: Exerting or capable of exerting strong influence.  
  
Most potent for evil  
  
Fëanor stood up at some point. The scroll crumpled in his fist. He reached the door; he might have run towards it. He wrenched it back with such force it crashed against the wall, and flew from the room like the rolling of a coming thunderstorm.  
  
He found his father where he’d expected at this hour, in his study. He slammed this door open as well, and stomped inside. The first thing his eyes always sought the moment he entered was the portrait of his mother. It hung across from the window, receiving the full splendor of the Tree Light. His mother’s jaw was still set as it ever was a mix of determination and gentleness upon her countenance. She was as beautiful as her body lying in the grass of Lórien ( _Her body will swiftly wither and pass away._ ) and just as empty of the spark of life.  
  
He tore his eyes away and found his father watching him. “You’re upset.”  
  
Fëanor’s chest wrung too tight, his tongue wouldn’t work properly, and there were tears he refused to let fall burning his eyes. He was so passed the bounds of simple anger (hurt, terror) he could only fling the scroll down on his father’s desk, body shaking with everything tangled up inside him.  
  
Father picked up the scroll calmly, and Fëanor wanted to hate him for that, but he couldn’t. He must never hate Father. Never. Father was all he had left (until Mother came home). It wasn’t Father’s fault he’d become lonely and made the mistake of consulting the Valar about this remarriage business. It was someone fault, Fëanor hadn’t worked out who yet, but it wasn’t his father’s.  
  
Father’s eyes flew over the parchment, his cheeks paling. “Where did you get this? I didn’t want you to read about the council, you know that, Fëanor! I said you were too young!”  
  
Fëanor lifted his chin. “What did you say to them?”  
  
Father’s brows pinched, the scroll left idle in his hands as his eyes rose to rove Fëanor’s face. “To what do you refer?”  
  
Fëanor’s breath rattled, as if his chest were nothing but a cage of bones, hollow. “When Ulmo called me a product of the Shadow. When he said I was marred from birth, and a potential for great evil. What did you say?”  
  
“Now, Fëanor, that wasn’t what Lord Ulmo meant—”  
  
“What did you say?”  
  
Father’s mouth tightened. “Nothing. The Valar were debating—”  
  
Fëanor spun, bolting for the door. A little table with an elegant vase of lilies and bluebells stood next to it. He seized the vase and hurled it into the wall with a scream.  
  
“Fëanor!”  
  
He didn’t stop to look back, he ran. He felt too hot inside, things exploded inside his head. His heart pound, pound, pounded so loud in his ears he couldn’t hear anything else (it had never pounded like this when Mother’s heartbeat matched his). Something deep, deep inside him, under this hurricane of emotions, curled up in a corner to weep. If he could hold his heart in the palm of his hand, it would be as broken as that dead robin.  
  
Arms caught him, swinging him off his feet, and pressing his back into a sturdy chest. Fëanor fought, clawing and shouting to get free, but Father wouldn’t let him go.  
  
“Shh, my son.” Father chased his cheeks, trying to plant kisses, but Fëanor twisted away.  
  
“Let me go, let me go!” Fëanor sank his nails into the backs of Father’s hands. Father didn’t let him go.  
  
“You must listen, you must understand.” Father pulled him tighter against his chest, taking no heed of the kicking heels. He fitted his mouth over Fëanor’s ear. “I could not have spoken up in such an assembly; I could not very well interrupt the Valar’s council—”  
  
“I would have!” Fëanor twisted towards his father this time so he could lock eyes. “I would have for _you_!”  
  
“Oh, Fëanor,” Father’s hand cupped his cheek. “My darling boy—”  
  
“Don’t call me that! That’s Mother’s name for me, and when she comes home—”  
  
“Enough.” Father’s voice dropped cool and silencing.  
  
Fëanor’s jaw trembled, but it wasn’t from furry this time. He wanted to talk about Mother. He wanted to hear Father say her name like he used to, like the shape of it was the most beautiful thing in the world rolling off his tongue.  
  
Fëanor turned his face out from the hand holding it. Father sighed. “Fëanor, your mother is never coming home, and it’s time you understood and accepted that.”  
  
“You’re a liar! I’m going to make her better, and then she’ll come home, and everything will be like it once was, just like you promised!”  
  
Father’s arms loosened about him just when he needed them to close tighter, to never let him go. “I can’t do this anymore, Fëanor. I can’t do this.”  
  
Fëanor sat cold on the stones without his father’s arms, and watched his father wrapped them about himself, head bowing. Father hunched in the silence, saying nothing, not even looking at Fëanor.  
  
Something scraped its way up Fëanor’s spine. He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all. Why wasn’t Father speaking? He looked…he looked sad like Mother did when she’d looked out the window and thought Fëanor wasn’t watching her from the corner of his eyes. Father looked like the broken wing of the robin, hanging at that awkward angle, trailing listlessly in the air.  
  
“Father?” His voice caught on a vulnerable note.  
  
Father looked up, his head rising from his droop. He stretched out his arms again and gathered Fëanor up. “Shh, don’t be frightened. I promised you’d never lose me, didn’t I?” Father had promised Mother was coming home and that he’d always love her too.  
  
Father kissed Fëanor’s temple, and Fëanor sank into the warmth of his father’s arms until the trembling ceased, and the coldness coiled in his gut unwound. But he stuck like a bur to his father’s side for the next week, unwilling (unable) to let his father out of his sight of a moment. He didn’t talk about Mother once in that stretch, terrified Father would push him away, would leave him all alone if he so much as whispered her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quotes from _The Shibboleth of Fëanor_. Manwë’s quote has been slightly modified.


	2. Chapter 2

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 2  
  
The door slammed behind Fëanor, muffling Father’s shouts for Fëanor to come back. Fëanor pelted down the palace corridors, running and running until he flew through the entrance doors and out into the Great Square beyond.  
  
Father had sat him down, even poured them cups of tea and waited until Fëanor had selected his favorite cake, as if it would be a day like any other and they would talk of Fëanor’s studies and Father would wrestle with the bubble of questions forever filling Fëanor’s chest. But it wasn’t like any other day. It was the worst day of Fëanor’s life, and nothing, _nothing_ , would ever be the same again.  
  
Father wanted to get married. Father thought Fëanor didn’t understand what this meant, he’d tried to present it like a good thing (as if Fëanor would ever want to ‘get to know’ this Indis). Fëanor understood what this meant: this Indis would kill his mother, kill her forever.  
  
Fëanor skidded around a street corner, almost crashing into an ellon pulling a cart. The ellon shouted after Fëanor to watch where he was going, but Fëanor didn’t slow down. He dashed around the milling bodies, pushing his way through the square and into the perfectly aligned streets beyond. He made for the construction site.  
  
Father had taken him to see the rising building, and Fëanor had been back every day since. It was his place now, though he’d never come without his father before.  
  
The construction site lay on the northern side of the city, and by the time Fëanor reached it the whirlwind blazing through him had calmed enough to still his running feet. He wiped the tears that were as much from fury as they were grief from his eyes, and craned his neck to examine the half-finished building. It was to be a theater, Father said, the first of its kind; a sign of the Noldor’s blossoming artistic refinement.  
  
The scaffolding rose with the structure, almost two stories high already. Fëanor began climbing. He wasn’t scared. He went all the way to the top, and found a perch in the top layer of stones. He plopped himself down on the narrow ledge, only the width of two blocks of stone, and let his feet dangle into space, toes kicking the air.  
  
His palms pressed into the grit of the masonry, and smoothed over the cut marble. The smell of stone and mortar saturated the air and wrapped about him like a blanket. He closed his eyes and listened to the masters and laborers working down below.  
  
A melody pulled itself out of sounds of the workplace. There was comfort to be found here in the creation of something new and beautiful. Maybe if he listened long enough, he’d open his eyes and find the last hour had only been a nightmare, the culmination of his deepest terrors.  
  
“Fëanor?”  
  
Fëanor’s eyes flew open and his head whipped around. Father made his way up the last few rungs of the scaffolding to climb up beside Fëanor on the ledge. Fëanor scowled when Father looked at him, but some of the tightness in his chest loosened.  
  
Father sat next to Fëanor. He studied Fëanor’s face as Fëanor stubbornly looked back down at the stonemasons, refusing to look at his father. “I don’t like you sitting so high up.”  
  
Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe I’ll fall. Then I’ll be with Mother and you can forget about me with that Indis like you’ve forgotten about Mother.”  
  
Father’s yanked Fëanor into his arms, starling a cry out of Fëanor at the suddenness. Father’s arms closed about him, crushing Fëanor against him. “Don’t _ever_ say something like that again. I love you more than anything else in this world. I could never, _never_ , forget you.”  
  
Fëanor’s breath caught on the stone in his throat. He flung his arms about his father, hugging him back like he’d stop breathing without him. Father cradled him in his fierce grip like he would stop breathing without Fëanor too.  
  
*  
  
“Fëanor.” Father held out his hand, waiting.  
  
Fëanor clutched his book tighter against his chest, shooting his father a dark, stubborn look.  
  
“The book.” Father’s hand stretched out between them, unmoving, eyes staring down steadily into Fëanor’s.  
  
“I’ve been analyzing the inconsistencies of Master Linroth’s treaty on the plant life around Lake Cuiviénen—”  
  
“And you will continue to analyze them _after_ meeting Indis.”  
  
Fëanor’s fingers clenched white about the book’s spine, his face scowling so fiercely it hurt.  
  
“The book, Fëanor. Now.”  
  
Fëanor snarled and threw the book at his father’s head. Father caught it deftly before it could make impact with his nose. Father sighed. He’d been doing that a lot lately. Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest, trying to drive some of the coldness out.  
  
“Can’t you at least try, Fëanor? I love Indis very much, and it would make me happy to see the two of you getting along. She’s a lovely person. I’m sure, if you just give her a chance, you will learn to like her as well.”  
  
Fëanor didn’t answer. He kept his arms crossed and stared straight ahead at the door.  
  
“Just try.” Father’s hand came down on Fëanor’s shoulder thrust up against him.  
  
Father opened the door. Light spilled out from the many windows of the solar. Father pushed Fëanor forward. Fëanor decided, as he dragged his feet into the room, that this was his least favorite room in the entire palace. Airy curtains trailed in lazy billows from the open windows, and with the light color pallet, everything looked too bright and fake. The elleth sitting directly in a pool of Laurelin’s light looked the most fake.  
  
She stood, a smile on her mouth, her white gown blending into a room of white. “Finwë, my love.” She held a slender hand out to Father, and Father left Fëanor’s side to take it. Father bent and placed a chaste kiss on her mouth. Fëanor’s fingers dug into the flesh of his arms.  
  
“And little Fëanor.” She turned her phony smile on him. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, sweetheart.” She bent, her hands finding her thighs as she sought to meet his eyes levelly. He did not shy from meeting hers, and when he had them he _glared_. Her smiled faltered, but only for a moment. It hitched back on as she cooed, “I was a friend of your mother’s, did you know that, dear? I hope we can be the best of friends to—”  
  
She was still talking but Fëanor had stopped listening. She remained him of a seagull with their constant chatter, and the way they scavenged, stealing food out of each other’s beaks; greedy, gossipy, common things.  
  
Fëanor stomped over to one of the couches and sat down with a ridged back and his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
Indis stopped her nattering. Silence fell for a moment, but Fëanor didn’t look over to see if his father and Indis were sharing pointed glances. His father’s voice reached him, quiet, but Fëanor’s sharp ears picked it up. “He’s had a hard time since Míriel’s….leaving. Give him a little time. He’ll come around.”  
  
Fëanor squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
“Of course, my love.” The wet sound of a kiss assaulted his ears, and Fëanor’s eyes squeezed so tight his face shook. The whisper of silk had Fëanor forcing himself to relax. He wouldn’t let Indis see how much it hurt inside.  
  
Indis arranged herself on the couch across from Fëanor. Fëanor’s heart lunched when his father hesitated between them, before coming to sit next to Fëanor. He shouldn’t have hesitated. Fëanor wouldn’t have.  
  
Indis smiled her fake smile at Fëanor. “So tell me about yourself, sweetheart. What are your favorite things to do?”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth scrunched into a mulish bud, and glared at her.  
  
Father’s hand came down on his shoulder. “Fëanor is an amazingly intelligent child, but perhaps chit-chat is not the best way to get to know each other.” Father’s fingers squeezed his shoulder, and Fëanor couldn’t help leaning back into it, carving the reassurance of love.  
  
“What about a game?” Indis clapped her hands. “What’s your favorite game, dear?”  
  
Fëanor didn’t answer. His eyes never left her face. He felt smug that her smile came a little more strained by the minute.  
  
“I have a fondness for footraces, but perhaps you enjoyed word games? Or maybe a puzzle or card game, those are always fun.”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth stayed stubbornly shut.  
  
“Fëanor, Indis asked you a question.” His father’s quiet reprimanded cut like a betrayal.  
  
Fëanor’s nostril’s flared, sucking in gulps of breath, his breast rising and falling at a rapid rate. His jaw finally unclenched enough to grit out: “Card games are pointless. They require no strategy and are all based on varying degrees of probability—”  
  
“A puzzle it is then.” Father stood up, leaving Fëanor’s side cold.  
  
Fëanor’s voice rose as his father crossed the room to the cabinet games were stored in for visiting lords’ children. “Puzzles as training for the development of problem-solving skills hold merit, but the artistry of the final product is insultingly sub-par—”  
  
“Fëanor, that’s enough. We’ll build a puzzle together, and you will join us.” Father dug through the cabinet.  
  
Fëanor’s mouth snapped shut. His father wasn’t listening to him, why wasn’t he listening?  
  
Fëanor turned a burning glare back at the witch who stole his father away. Her fixed smile slipped off her face entirely under the heat of Fëanor’s eyes. “Well aren’t you a sullen little thing.” The murmured words weren’t soft enough to escape Fëanor. He glared all the harder.  
  
Indis shook her head, folding her hands in her lap. She leaned forward, holding her voice at a whisper so Father couldn’t hear. “I realize you are frustrated and hurt, child, but you need to accept that your father and I will be married. I love your father, and if you would take a moment to look, you would see your father is happy with me—”  
  
Fëanor leapt up. “I’m not playing a puzzle game!” Father’s head whipped out of the cabinet at Fëanor’s shouted words, and Indis’ words, hissing into his ears like the bent ones of a snake, were cut off.  
  
“Fëanor, really.” Father huffed.  
  
Indis rose with the grace of the bird she so reminded Fëanor of, and turned a smile on Father. “If he’s so against it, let us think of something else. This is supposed to be a time of enjoyment, after all.”  
  
Father’s face smoothed out, a smile lifting his mouth. Fëanor couldn’t watch the happiness on Father’s face, the happiness _she_ had put there, not Fëanor, not Mother.  
  
“What about some music?” Indis looked back at Fëanor with another forced on smile. “I have a fondness for songs. We could sing together—”  
  
“My mother sung with me! The one you _killed_!”  
  
“Fëanor!” Father’s voice slapped Fëanor like a lash. “Go to your room!”  
  
A sob half rage half pain torn out of Fëanor’s throat. “I hate you!” He bolted for the door, sending it open with a bang, and sprinted down the hall with his father’s shouts ringing through the palace once again.  
  
Fëanor didn’t go to his room; he went to the North Wing of the Palace.  
  
After Father had announced his intention to marry Indis, he’d quietly ordered Mother’s things packed-up where they had been left, untouched, since her leaving. Her gowns were folded into chests, her jewels placed in velvet caskets, her perfumes and little knickknacks still decorating Father and Mother’s room were all packed away. Father sent the servants to Mother’s workroom, and Fëanor watched them carry out Mother’s loom and the bolts of cloth, works half-finished, some not even begun, out. Fëanor followed after all the packers, sneaking little scraps of needlework into his pockets, a bottle of her perfume so he’d never forget her scent, one of the many journals she’d filled with her elegant hand (the most recent one all about her and him).  
  
Father had had Mother’s picture removed from the wall of his study. He’d had her tapestries taken down from the walls where they’d once occupied almost every room in the palace, and had them carried to the North Wing. He’d filled the empty spaces with inferior works, paintings and tapestries that were like asking a child to paint over a masterpiece.  
  
He’d extracted every piece of Mother from his daily life like a healer will take a scalpel and extract bone shards. All the pieces of Mother had gone into the North Wing, and then the doors had been locked. Father had given Fëanor a key, and told him that whenever he needed to he could visit what was left of Mother, but nothing was the same. The picture of Mother that had once hung in Laurelin’s light, now rested in shadow, the window’s shutters closed, and dust collected on all the precious pieces of Mother without the servants to dust them with religious care.  
  
Fëanor’s hands shook as they fitted the key he wore (always) about this neck into the lock. The smell of dust motes and stone greeted him with the shadows as he slipped down the empty corridors of the North Wing. Fëanor went to the room hung with Mother’s tapestry, every inch of wall covered. He trailed his fingers over the weave, feeling their fineness; if he closed his eyes it could almost be his mother’s silver hair slipping through his hands.  
  
He stopped before one of his favorites. His fingers reach up to trace the vision so lifelike it was easy to forget it was thread under his fingertips. Fëanor had heard others say his mother’s tapestries were so exact they were frightening, but not to Fëanor, never to Fëanor.  
  
A circle of tents greeted his fingers. They were pitched in open lands of rolling green. Sheep grazed on the hills with the specs of shepherds guarding them. Before each tent stood a single woman. Their faces turned as one not to the West, where the Great Sea rolled out before them like a paved road towards Valinor and the glimmer of light in the far distance, but East. There was such longing in their faces, Fëanor could close his eyes and hear the sound of their voices raised in unison as they must have upon the starlit shores, calling out their longing for a home forsaken.  
  
“I thought I’d find you here.” Fëanor didn’t turn at the sound of Father’s entrance. Father came to stand next to him, and they admired Mother’s work in a moment of silence.  
  
“Why don’t you love Mother anymore?”  
  
“Fëanor.” Father crouched down next to him, putting his big hands on Fëanor’s shoulders and turning him to face him. “I will always love your mother, but there comes a point in grief, I have learned, when we must put aside the widowers’ bleak heart and seek life again. Indis makes me happy; she makes me feel alive again.”  
  
Fëanor’s lip trembled. “But Mother was going to come home. If we just wait a little longer, if you give me time to grow up so I can learn how to make her better again—”  
  
“Fëanor,” Father’s hands tightened on Fëanor’s shoulders. “Your mother said she never wanted to come back. She said that. Now we must learn to live with—”  
  
“But she was sick! She wanted to get better too, but she didn’t know how! She needed me to help fix her—”  
  
“Enough.” Father’s fingers pinched into Fëanor’s skin. “We will not speak of this again. Your mother made her choice and that’s the end of it. Now we must turn out faces to the future and put the past aside.”  
  
Fëanor shoved his father’s hands off him. “I won’t forget her. Never!” Fëanor tried to dart under his father’s reaching hands and make a break for the door, but Father caught him about the waist.  
  
“I said enough, Fëanor. This isn’t healthy for you. You must stop this!”  
  
Fëanor fought the arms, but Father wouldn’t release him. Father held him until his struggles ceased, and he sunk against Father’s chest.  
  
“Can’t you try, my son?” Father brushed the hair from Fëanor’s face. “Give Indis a chance, see where this leads.” Father kissed Fëanor’s temple. “Try, Fëanor, just try, for me.”  
  
  
*  
  
The hall glittered like a butterfly rolled in sugar crystals and set free in the light of a Mingling. Laurelin’s light streamed in through the windows, thick enough Fëanor could hold up his hand and watch it fall against his skin, so close it seemed a error in the making of the world that he could not cup light in his palms.  
  
Gems glinted in the mosaics set into the walls and the columns spiraling up into a ceiling reaching out to embrace them like the budding of a rose. The tables had been set with silver and gold dishware and utensils, and these gathered the light to them, reflecting it back ten-fold.  
  
The crowds of richly garbed Elves stole the eye. The Noldor had strung jewels in their hair and sewn them into their colorful dress, while the Vanya who had come to witness Indis’ marriage to the Noldor’s king had worn shades of white: white silk, white lace, white diamonds and pearls. Their hair coiled in thick clouds about their golden-toned faces. They looked as fake as the Murderess Indis in Fëanor’s eyes.  
  
Fëanor had never been to even the most modest of parties before. Father had stopped holding them after Mother left. Over the years, the palace had gown quiet and shrouded, the air of loss pressing like shadows into all the corners. Fëanor had not minded the silences and the empty gardens. Elves still traversed the palace corridors, hurrying to and fro with their business, and halls and offices in the palaces’ public rooms still bustled, but in the private, family wing, the stones no longer echoed with footsteps.  
  
Father wanted to fill up the corridors with the pitter-patter of new sons and daughters. He had told Fëanor this, as if the thought of being replaced, of not being enough, would comfort him.  
  
Fëanor stood stiff upon the dais beside his father. Indis stood opposite, smiling out at the world with the greedy, empty grin of a seagull. Father had insisted Fëanor stand beside him during the wedding ceremony. The scowl did not wipe from Fëanor’s face for even a moment, and his heart did not stop beating itself black and blue against his ribs as he watched Father take _her_ hand in his and wrap the Ribbon of Joining about their linked hands.  
  
Father spoke to Indis: “I will fill your lap with gold and your heart with love. Your shoulders will rest under the mantle of my protection and your head under the roof of my house: You are my wife, I am your husband.”  
  
Indis opened her mouth, and Fëanor couldn’t bear to hear the words that would come out. He tore his hand away from his father’s and shot down the dais. “Fëanor!” He did not stop for his father’s call.  
  
Strong arms lifted him up and settled him deftly upon a hip as if he’d ridden it a hundred times before. The shock of the alien pair of arms holding him stilled his struggles. Master Rúmil’s eyes met his, and Fëanor breathed a little easier within their fathomless depths. Master Rúmil’s eyes were a brown so dark they looked black in the shadows of night, and they possessed a stillness inside them that lay like the paste of a balm against Fëanor’s burnt heart.  
  
“It’s almost over, child.”  
  
It would never be over.  
  
The ceremony continued, and Master Rúmil held him on his hip through every word, every caress, every promise that sunk under Fëanor’s skin like knives. When the crowds began mingling, Finwë and Indis swept hand-in-hand down the dais to walk among them, and Master Rúmil gave Fëanor his feet. “Go to your father, child.”  
  
Fëanor balled his hands into fists to keep them from trembling, and pushed his way through the crowd. Master Rúmil had read his desire in his eyes: he wanted his father. But he wanted him all alone, just the two of them sitting in the quiet of Father’s study, Father’s fingers running through Fëanor’s hair as Fëanor read aloud from the book currently fascinating him.  
  
Pockets of conversation slipped into his ears like slime:  
  
“It was gone about in a very _underhand_ manner.”  
  
“I don’t wish to speak ill of the Queen, naturally, but she was always a bit odd, wasn’t she?”  
  
“Oh hush, you never liked her because she wouldn’t accept the commission for your son’s wedding robe! She was an artist. You know how they are.”  
  
“You can’t convince me you don’t find it unnatural the way she refused to return. I know you. Under that carefully forged smile you think the same as I.”  
  
“I’ll tell you what I think; I think it’s _suspicious_ the way Finwë has stopped saying the Queen’s name properly. And this whole remarriage business has been far too hasty in my opinion. Why, they only just ‘fell in love’ last month!”  
  
“The prince’s behavior, now…that was quite the scowl he put on. I’ve heard a few things myself about that quarter. I can’t say many of them were positive.”  
  
“He’s a poor dear. I won’t have you wagging that tongue of yours in certain ears, he’s just a child, and Queen Míriel’s son as well. Things would be different if the Queen still sat at Finwë’s right-hand.”  
  
“For one we wouldn’t be having this lovely wedding party, now would we?”  
  
Fëanor couldn’t stand to hear another word from the clusters of gossiping courtiers. It would be one thing if they only spoke so loosely, with their cunning barbs that were not quite spears but nothing like smiles, at him. But they would speak of his mother so, and cast blamed upon his father. The only things suspicious were Indis’ fake smiles. The only think unnatural in the room was Indis’ hand in his father’s.  
  
Fëanor’s nails dug into his palms as he came within sight of his father. Father had his arm about Indis’ waist. Fëanor marched forward, determined to shove himself between them and make his father stopping touching _her_.  
  
“…it is my hope Fëanor will come to see me as his mother, I would be honored to call him my son. I agree, it would be good for him—”  
  
Fëanor couldn’t hear through the ringing in his ears. Indis had on her fake smile as the nobles gave her fake smiles back, and his father _nodded along_. “My name is Fëanáro Curufinwë Þerindion!” Faces turned, wine glasses pausing on their trips to mouths, eyes widened. “I’ll never belong to you!”  
  
Fëanor turned and ran back through the crowd. It parted for him, eyes staring, heads shaking; tisking tongues’ and murmurs of the ‘poor child’ followed after him as he fled the hall.  
  
He shot straight and true, like a falcon flying home, towards the North Wing of the palace. He pulled the key pressed against his heart from under his tunic, and slotted it in the door. He locked the door after him. He only wanted one to come for him, only the other with the key to these rooms.  
  
He went to the room hung with his mother’s tapestries, and curled up on the floor before his very favorite. His father’s face smiled down at him, features noble and happy with his arm about Mother’s waist. Mother’s silver hair flowed about her shoulders like a halo. Her eyes were the exact same shade as his: a silver that rivaled Telperion’s pureness. They seemed to look down at him and _see_ him.  
  
Sometimes, if he just believed hard enough, he could hear her ghostly footsteps, feel the touch of her hand upon the back of his neck, see her out of the corner of his eye as a window’s drapes billowed out with a breeze. His mother visited him. He knew it. She didn’t want to leave him all alone, so sometimes her spirit gave Námo the slip and she snuck out of Mandos to come to her darling boy.  
  
Fëanor waited, gazing up at the tapestry of his parents, wishing he had already been born in that moment of sweet happiness for them so he could stand beside them. He waited, but Father never came to find him. Laurelin’s light dimmed from its zenith, and Telperion’s silver began to thread itself through the gold as the hour of Mingling approached, but still Father did not come.  
  
Tears dripped down Fëanor’s face. He did not wipe them away; he did not take his eyes off his mother’s face. “Does Father hate me now?”  
  
No answer came, for he was alone, utterly alone. He folded up into himself and wept, sobbing out the pain that pressed and pressed and pressed like fists into his heart. He cried until he slipped into an exhausted sleep, curled up in a ball there on the hard floor, no comfort but his own arms to wrap about his body.  



	3. Chapter 3

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 3  
  
Fëanor took to avoiding everyone and hiding in his room. He still went to his lessons, and threw himself into them with a fervor that had his tutors speaking soft, concerned words to his father when they thought Fëanor couldn’t hear. But where once he would have shared every dinner with his father and all the hours of the evening together, now he shut himself in his room to avoid seeing Indis and Father laughing together at table, sharing little touches and lingering looks.  
  
His father allowed him his avoidance for all of a week before he hauled Fëanor back to meals, insisting he join the ‘family.’ Fëanor spent dinners cutting up his meat with more force then necessary and dragging his cutlery over the plate’s porcelain to produce a sound that grated against the ears. He quickly noticed Indis took great pride in decorum and manners, so he conveniently forgot his whenever her presence was forced upon him. He had a fond memory of ‘accidently’ spilling his watered-wine down the front of her favorite gown.  
  
Indis took her revenge. Fëanor had started covertly observing his father and Indis together (he needed to know if Father loved her more), and he heard her many attempts to poison his father against him. She spoke of how Father needed to use a ‘firmer hand’ with Fëanor, but the worst was when she tried to separate them with the idea of Fëanor needing ‘friends his own age.’ She wanted Father all to herself.  
  
When his father came to his room that night to kiss him goodnight, Father broached Indis’ plot to keep them apart. He talked of peers and the value of friendships, but when Fëanor continued in his resistance, Father told him he _would_ be going to Lord Pelloch’s son’s Begetting Day celebration.   
  
Fëanor would have none of it. He raged until Father understood how much he hated the idea. Father understood and retracted his insistence on Fëanor’s attendance.   
  
Fëanor thought that would be the end of it. His father and he had understood each other and parted with kisses and clinging hugs, and for a few hours the world set itself to right. But when Fëanor watched Father and Indis where they sat knee-to-knee in her favorite solar the next day, the world blackened again with Indis’ words. She gave Father instruction on how to ‘handle’ Fëanor, as if he were a misbehaving dog. She spoke of ‘firm boundaries,’ ‘discipline,’ and Fëanor being ‘out of control.’ But nothing she said could hurt like Father’s head nodding along.  
  
Father didn’t listen to Fëanor when he shouted this time, not even when he spoke with the language of an ink pot shattered against the wall. Father didn’t _listen_. The weight of this revelation crushed in Fëanor’s heart and made it hard to draw breath in through the screams.   
  
Father came to Fëanor’s room on the day on the appointed ‘peer outing,’ and found Fëanor sitting in bed, reading, with his nightclothes still on.   
  
“I heard from the maid you were refusing to get dressed.” Fëanor didn’t look up. He turned a page in his book. “Fëanor, the Begetting Day celebration will begin in an hour, I need you to get up and dress yourself.” Fëanor didn’t budge. “I’m serious, Fëanor. When I come back in you’d better have dressed yourself.”  
  
Only after Father left did Fëanor look up from his book. It was too late to run away, Father had anticipated that and kept a maid outside Fëanor’s door all morning to haul him back in when he tried to run.   
  
Fëanor surveyed the room, eyes running critically over the dark spots under the furniture. None would serve. His eye lighted upon the chest his play clothes were folded within.  
  
He jumped off the bed, threw back the chest’s lid, and investigated the revealed space. Carefully he dug out a space for his body on the chest’s bottom, crawled in, and arranged the clothes on top of himself so they concealed him entirely, before lowering the lid and shutting himself away in darkness.  
  
Fëanor listened to his heartbeat, using it to measure time. An inaccurate measurement since it pounded a few beats too quickly against his fingertips pressed into the side of his throat. He’d experiment and discovered his heartbeat beat at an average of 80 beats on a minute, 100 if he measured after a run. He calculated his heartbeat had spiked to the rage of 85-90. He used the task of counting heartbeats to stop from thinking about anything else.   
  
He estimated about five minutes passed with him hidden in the darkness of the chest before his father entered the room again. He counted his father’s footsteps, listening to the soft pad of their fall against the stones.   
  
“Fëanor?”  
  
His father’s footsteps drew away, towards the bed. The rustle of bedding being pulled back: “Fëanor, come out this instant, this isn’t a game!”  
  
Father started pacing around the room, pausing to peek under the furniture and throw the doors of the wardrobe open, voice growing more agitated by the minute until it shouted for Fëanor to come out. Fëanor tested his eyesight in the darkness. He’d never conducted the experiments in such utter blackness before. Not even a crease of light filtered in through the seam of the chest’s lid meeting its body.   
  
He held his hand up before his face, pulled back, then inched it closer again until he reached the outermost edge of his limited sight. His other hand came up to act as a measurement. From thumbnail to pinky his hand spanned 5 inches. That made the furthest distance his eyes could make out the shape of his hand in complete darkness—  
  
The chest’s lid flew back against the wall. Fëanor froze, barely daring to breath. Father stalked off to try the next hiding space after only a cursory examination; the chest looked brimming with play clothes.   
  
Father called in the maid, and they began combing the room for him. Fëanor recited the names of the Elves who’d awoken about Lake Cuiviénen with only Ilúvatar for a father and mother. Not all the names had been preserved (a failing he considered a gross neglect in their history, as he’d told his history and language tutor Master Rúmil), but Fëanor had memorized the ones that had. All his great-grandparents had been among this Fatherless, as well as his mother’s father who’d been numbered among the Teleri, once called the Nelyar.  
  
By the time his father resorted to pulling the clothing out of the chest and discovered Fëanor lying beneath, Fëanor estimated twenty minutes had passed in the search. If he could devise a way to snip off another half-hour, Father would not make him go to Lord Pelloch’s son’s Begetting Day party for he’d risk the rudeness of arriving discourteously late.  
  
Father hauled Fëanor up from the bottom of the chest with an iron grip about his arm, and started berating him. Fëanor didn’t listen. His fingers caught on the lip of the chest, and held on.   
  
“That is it, Fëanor!” Father tugged, but Fëanor held on, the chest skidding a few inches across the floor from the strength of Father’s pulls. “Let go. Now!”  
  
“My lord, should I…” The maid gestured at Fëanor’s clinging fingers.  
  
“If you would.”  
  
Fëanor bit the maid’s fingers when they tried to twist his fingers off. She wretched her hand back with a cry.  
  
“Fëanor!” Father’s hands tightened about his waist, and _pulled_. Fëanor’s fingers ached something terrible, but he held on with all the obstinacy of his temperament. He would not be _handled_. He would not be _controlled_. “This behavior is over, do you understand me? It ends _now_!”  
  
“Promise I don’t have to go and I’ll be good!”  
  
“No. You are not blackmailing me, young man. You _will_ listen. This behavior is a product of my lack of discipline since Míriel left, but I won’t allow it to go on any longer—”  
  
“Is that what _she_ told you! You didn’t ask me what I wanted; you only listen to her now!” Fëanor kicked out, but couldn’t hit anything with the way his father held him. “I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go!”  
  
“If you have something to say, you need to tell me in a calm voice—”  
  
Fëanor screamed.  
  
“That’s enough!” The roar in his father’s voice killed the scream in Fëanor’s throat. Father had shouted at him, but never like that. Father took advantage of his shock by yanking him away from the chest.   
  
“No!” Fëanor flayed on the floor, fingers seeking out another hold.  
  
“Get his clothing out of the wardrobe!” The maid scurried to follow Father’s barked order.  
  
Father kept Fëanor trapped in his arms as he tried to pull the nightshirt from Fëanor’s twisting body. “No, no! I don’t want to go!”  
  
“That is _enough!_ ” Father took him by the shoulders and shook him. The back of Fëanor’s head smacked against the stones with a sickening sound that froze all movement in the room.  
  
Fëanor lay as still and silent as the others. His head hurt, but the shock of his father’s actions hurt so much worse.  
  
“Fëanor?” Father’s hand came up to cup his cheek, turning his dazed eyes up to his father’s. “Fëanor?” Father’s eyes flew over Fëanor’s face, mouth dropped open in horror.  
  
“Don’t make me go,” Fëanor’s voice dropped with the quiet of a needle upon stones in the silence.  
  
Father’s breath whooshed out in a sob, and he gathered Fëanor up in his arms, rubbing his hands down Fëanor’s back. “I am sorry, so sorry. I’ll never hurt you like that again. I promise. I promise. I love you so much, my son.”  
  
Fëanor buried his face in his father’s shoulder and fell into the embrace, taking a gulp of his father’s scent. Before Fëanor was ready, Father eased him back. He took Fëanor’s hands in his palms again. “I’m sorry for hurting you, my son, but you still have to obey me. I am your father and—”  
  
Fëanor yanked out of his father’s hold. He didn’t make it far before Father captured him again. Fëanor didn’t scream and fight, Father wouldn’t listen to that language and Fëanor wasn’t so stuffed with too much inside to not be able to speak in any other. When Father tried to set him down on his feet, Fëanor’s legs turned to jelly and Father had to carry Fëanor to the bed. When Father tried to lift the nightshirt off him, Fëanor’s arms glued to his sides.   
  
Father lost his patience and tore it off him with a great ripping sound as it split from collar to waist. Fëanor bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out as Father yanked it the rest of the way down. Though it hadn’t hurt, it frightened him.   
  
Fëanor swallowed, looking up into his father’s face as Father hauled him up from the bed to stuff the tunic over his head because Fëanor’s body had turned itself into rock. His father didn’t meet his eyes, and his brows pulled low and dark as his mouth set itself in a grim line.  
  
Fëanor’s belly squirmed. But he’d told Father he didn’t want to go. He’d tried to be good, hadn’t he? But Father wasn’t listening!  
  
Father dressed him in silence, and when Fëanor refused to stand, carried him from the room and into the waiting carriage. Father closed the carriage door behind them with a snap, and rapped his knuckles against the outer wall to signal to the driver they were ready. The silence lasted all through the ride to Lord Pelloch’s house. Only when the carriage pulled into the drive did Father turn to him.  
  
“Will I be carrying you into that house, or are you going to walk? It’s up to you, Fëanor, if you want everyone seeing you, a boy of seven years, being carried about by his father like a baby.”  
  
“I want to go home.” Fëanor scowled at his feet.  
  
“That’s not an option.” When Fëanor didn’t answer, Father snapped, “You have five seconds to decide before I pick you up and sling you over my shoulder, young man.”  
  
Fëanor shoved himself to his feet with a growl. Father opened the carriage door without comment, and climbed down after Fëanor. Fëanor didn’t wipe the dark glare off his brow as he was introduced to Lord Pelloch’s son and the boy’s friends. Father sighed, squeezed his shoulder and told him he’d be in the next room with the other parents and _left_ Fëanor all alone with _strangers_.  
  
After a few moments of staring, one of the boys approached Fëanor and asked if he’d like to play ball. Fëanor informed him of the many benefits and failings of the activity, while the boy blinked blankly at him. Fëanor’s scowl deepened, but grudgingly agreed to play and joined the boy and his friends out in the garden.   
  
The game started well enough (Fëanor was winning of course). It soured when Fëanor was still winning a half-hour later. Fëanor explained his success, that it was all a matter of the strength of the initial force applied to the ball which determined the ball’s acceleration from which Fëanor could calculate—  
  
“You talk funny.”  
  
Fëanor’s words trailed off. His face twisted into a sneer. “On the contrary, my speech is a reflection of my intellect, and given your lack of articulation your intellect –or lack thereof—is embarrassingly obvious.”   
  
When Fëanor had too much inside to do anything but rage and scream, this fire in him burning too brightly to see through all the feelings inside, he found it a struggle to get even basic words out, but this boy didn’t need to know that. Let him think Fëanor always sounded so refined.  
  
The boy wrinkled his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
Fëanor turned his back on the boy, abandoning the game to brood in the shade of an apple tree. He sat himself down, back to the tree’s trunk, and wished he had a book or one of his tutors there with him. If he could spend the afternoon in fruitful discourse, maybe this ‘peer outing’ wouldn’t be too terrible. But there was no one but these boys who were irritating him more by the minute. He watched them laugh and toss meaningless banter about, seemingly perfectly content.   
  
He bent his ear to them, eyes picking them apart. He studied them like a new species of animal. He’d had a few conversations with his ‘peers’ in the past, but on the whole he avoid children. He didn’t understand what about their boring conversations put those bright smiles on their faces, as if all was right in the world.  
  
His observations had not gone unnoticed, and one of the boys came over. He smiled at Fëanor. “Come play with us again, you shouldn’t mind Salgant, most of us don’t like him much either.”  
  
Fëanor studied the boy. “Why do you play with him if he irritates you?”   
  
The boy shrugged, still smiling. “Don’t know. It’d be mean not to, though, wouldn’t it?”  
  
Fëanor narrowed his eyes. “So you do it out of social obligation rather than any genuine motivation. Is that the reason you came to ask me to play? You didn’t want to appear unchivalrous to your friends?”  
  
“Uh,” the boy scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t really get what you’re saying.”  
  
Fëanor sighed. “Have you come to ask me to play because you want to maintain your ‘nice’ imagine?”  
  
“My…image?” The boy shook his head, bewilderment washing his face. “Look. I just wanted to know if you wanted to play. So do you?”  
  
“Not until I understand your motivation for asking.” He tried again, “Why did you ask me to play?”  
  
The boy scratched his cheek, some of the other boys drifted over to investigate. “Thought you might like to, I guess.”  
  
Fëanor shook his head, fed up. “Never mind. Go play your simple-minded game.”  
  
“Hey, don’t talk to Celonel like that!” One of the other boys pushed his chest forward. “He didn’t do anything to you!”  
  
Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest. “I insulted the game, not him as a person.”  
  
“He was being mean to you, did you hear, he just said so?” The chest-puffing boy turned to Celonel.  
  
Fëanor jumped up. “If you didn’t have the intelligence of a chipmunk, you would have understood I did _not_.”  
  
Celonel’s big eyes swung back and forth between them. His face crumpled. “Don’t cry, Celonel,” the chest-puffer patted Celonel’s back. “We’re still your friends.”  
  
“He was being mean to me!” Fat tears rolled down Celonel’s cheeks.  
  
Fëanor glared at the chest-puffer. The chest-puffer glared back, pushing himself between Celonel and Fëanor.   
  
“It’s alright, don’t listen to him,” one of the other boy’s put his arms about Celonel’s heaving shoulders. “Here, do you want a turn with the ball?”  
  
“Oh stop coddling him!” Fëanor lashed out.   
  
“You shut your mouth!” Chest-puffer took a step forward into Fëanor’s space. Chest-puffer stood a few inches taller than Fëanor. Fëanor _really_ didn’t like him.  
  
“I’ll speak when I like.” Fëanor tilted his head up so he could look down his nose at the other boy. “It was not _I_ who made that boy cry, it was your false accusations—”   
  
Chest-puffer turned to his friends ganged up around him. “Salgant is right. He talks funny. He’s _weird_.” He turned back to Fëanor, a smug smirk on his lips as Fëanor’s cheeks flushed as the other boys laughed _at him_. “Come on, leave him, he’s boring. Let’s go play.”  
  
Fëanor hissed at their backs as they ran away, leaving him _humiliated_. He’d been dismissed, when it was them who were so much below him with their little minds that would never _reach_ , and their eyes that would never really _look_ and see the world as he did.  
  
He told himself he’d not liked them anyway. Hadn’t he just been thinking them boring? Chest-puffer slid a smirk back over his shoulder at Fëanor, and Fëanor glared back. He spun away, hair snapping out behind him, and marched with the full measure of his dignity and wrath back into the house, back a lance against them.  
  
But when the door closed behind him, he was left standing alone in a strange hall full of strangers. The door did not blot out the sound of the children’s laughter, or their comments. “He really is weird!” “Did you hear the way he talked, like he’d eaten a book or something?” “Yeah, my history tutor talks like that, I hate it.” “Well, he’s gone, and good riddance!” The children laughed as one, mocking Fëanor.  
  
Fëanor couldn’t stand it another moment. He had to get out, get all these feeling burning up inside him out. He ran. Running, he’d found, worked the ball of fire pounding in his chest loose the fastest.  
  
He ran for the door and out of this house of strangers. He took to the streets of Tirion. He didn’t know his way around this section of the city, but that was alright, he’d run until he’d found his way home.  
  
The burning seeped out of him through his pumping muscles and heaving lungs before he found any streets he recognized. He made a note to find a map of Tirion and memorize it before he left the palace again.   
  
The sounds of sawing and hammering floated out from the workshops lining the street to mingle with the clamor of the bustling crowds. He’d wandered into the artisans’ district, more specifically, the Alley of Carpenters. Fëanor had only heard of this district in passing, and now his head swiveled about, eyes wide, trying to eat up everything at once.  
  
A carpenter had thrown the doors of his shop open to let the light in by the bucketful. A small gathering of Elves watched the carpenter work from stools they’d clustered about his door. Fëanor’s feet pulled him closer, drawn irresistibly to the sight of the master artist at work.  
  
A youth only a few years short of his majority with a handkerchief holding his dark hair back from his face fetched a stool for Fëanor. “Here,” the youth settled it next to his own.   
  
Fëanor’s rear found the stool, but his eyes had not torn away from the carpenter for a second.  
  
The youth bumped his shoulder with Fëanor’s. Fëanor started, eyes flying up to the Elf beside him, a scathing word on the tip of his tongue for breaking his observation, but the youth grinned at him. “I was just the same the first time I saw the Master at work. There’s no finer carpenter in all the city.”   
  
The youth leaned forward, pointing so Fëanor could follow the line of his arm back to the Master at work. “He draws life from the wood with the care of a lover. Do you see the way he takes his time, seeking the wood’s voice?” Fëanor nodded, understand what the youth meant instinctively. “Many an Elf can craft beauty with wood, but only a true master of masters can here its soft voice whispering its nature into his ear like the sighing of wind through boughs.”  
  
The youth’s eyes danced as they met Fëanor’s. “You’re alright. For a nobleborn.” Fëanor looked down at the finely spun and embroidered tunic betraying his birth. “What’s your name, then?”  
  
“Fëanor.” Fëanor didn’t consider concealing who he was. Why should he?  
  
The youth snorted. “Right, Fëanor. Like the king’s son would be wandering down here alone.”  
  
Fëanor found his temper did not stir at the dismissive words. “And your name is?”  
  
The youth stuck his nose up, taking on teasing airs. “Lision, son of Taerchar, the noble shop’s assistance.”  
  
Fëanor laughed, a bright, clear sound. He rarely saw any reason to hide what he felt. Heads, snared from watching the Master at work, sought the source of the uncommonly enticing laughter. Lision laughed too, pulled into the merriment as some of the Elves about them were from the sheer joy of Fëanor’s voice.  
  
Fëanor spent the afternoon with Lision, watching the Master at work, and then wandering the artisan district. Lision let Fëanor in on the district’s secrets, showing him all the best spots and introducing him to masters and humble work-hands alike.   
  
There was nothing boring about Lision’s company. He seemed to know everything, and when questions piled out of Fëanor’s mouth, Lision was as delighted as Fëanor’s tutors by his enthusiasm, answering each one with the knowledge of a boy who’d grown up in the heart of the most exciting district in the city. Lision did not tell him he talked funny or was weird, he slung his arm over Fëanor’s shoulders and told him he’d have to kidnap him from his posh tutors and apprentice him to a master because Fëanor was a ‘sharp lad’ and a ‘natural.’ Fëanor glowed under the praise, licking it up, and determined to be even cleverer.  
  
Lision took Fëanor home with him to meet his parents and break their evening fast. Lision’s parents welcomed Fëanor with smiles that reached their eyes, and booming voices telling him to eat up. The board was simple, and unlike anything Fëanor had been served in the palace. Fëanor could not remember ever eating heartier in his life.  
  
“Well now,” Lision’s father laced his fingers over his stomach and leaned back in his chair now their bellies stretched comfortably full. “It’s getting late, and your parents will be wondering if my lad made off with you, eh?” He winked at his son.  
  
“Da!” Lision rolled his eyes.  
  
His father laughed, deep from his belly. “That’s my lad. Now,” he turned warm brown eyes back on Fëanor. “You come around whenever you like, you hear? Any friend of Lision’s is always welcome under my roof –humble as it is.” Lision’s father pushed himself up, and laid one of his huge, work-roughed hands on Fëanor’s shoulder, patting it. “Right, you’re a good lad. Now off with you before you give your parents a fright.”  
  
Fëanor rose with reluctance. Lision’s arm found its way over his shoulder. “I’ll walk you home.”   
  
Fëanor allowed himself to be led into a night bathed silver with Telperion’s light. The streets that had been so alive and vibrant in the day now lay silent.   
  
“So, which big, fancy lord’s house does your father own? No wait, let me guess. Hmm…” Lision peered into Fëanor’s face, his own adopting a serious bend. “The House of the…Lily.”  
  
Fëanor snorted, pushing Lision off with a grin. “That’s a Vanyar House!”  
  
“It is, is it?” Lision wagged his brows. “Well that won’t do, no not at all! You’re the Noldo of the Noldor; it’s practically blasphemy to suggest it’s Vanya blood in these veins!” Lision patted Fëanor’s cheek. “Let’s see…it must be the House of the Harp!” Fëanor’s nose wrinkled, sending Lision into a fit of laughter. “Alright, alright, what the House of the Scribe? No! Come on, that was a good guess! The House of the Heavenly Arch? You’ve got the fancy dress down.”  
  
Fëanor set his hands on his hips, and raised his brows, giving himself his haughtiest carriage. “I think I can do a bit better then the _House of the Heavenly Arch_.”  
  
Lision shook his head, chuckling. “Aye, I bet you can. So, games up, what flashy mansion am I escorting you to?”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth tilted in a smirk. “What do I get for winning the game?”  
  
Lision rolled his eyes. “My illustrious time.”  
  
Fëanor grinned and crossed his arms over his chest. “I require an escort to the House of the Star.”  
  
Lision still didn’t believe him for a moment, but his eyes slowly widened and his mouth dropped open. “You mean you really are the king’s son?”  
  
“I told you I was, didn’t I?”  
  
“Wait until I tell my ma and da they served the prince at table!” He sung his arm back over Fëanor’s shoulder. “Alright then, little prince, to the palace it is!”  
  
Fëanor’s light heart dropped the closer they drew to home, and he fell into a brooding silence. Lision squeezed his shoulder. “What’s got you so quiet?”  
  
“I don’t want to go back.”  
  
Lision didn’t say anything for a moment, and the only sound in the silence of the silver night was their boot falls against the street’s cobbles. “I heard about your father’s remarriage. Well, I suppose there isn’t an Elf in Valinor who didn’t hear.” When Fëanor didn’t answer, Lision said, “You know my da meant it when he said you were welcome anytime. You ever feel up to it, and there’s a spot around our table, poshy king’s son though you are.” Fëanor didn’t return Lision’s teasing smile. Lision’s arm tightened about his shoulder. “Hey, we’re friends, right?” At Fëanor’s slow nod, Lision beamed. “That settles it then. Any friend of mine is welcome to come steal me away from my chores for the chance of bathing in the wonder of my presence any day. In fact, please do!”  
  
When they broke into the Great Square and the palace gates came within view, glittering in the silver light, Fëanor’s feet did not drag as they had. He’d never had a friend before. He felt warm inside, like the warmth his tutor’s praise, an answer unearthed, and his father’s hugs filled him with.  
  
Lision left him at the gate with a promise from Fëanor to come down to the district some time. Fëanor fully intended to keep his promise. He wouldn’t have made it if he didn’t.  
  
He made his way into the palace, one of the guards at the gate running ahead to send word of his coming. His father met him at the great doors. Father’s hair flew about him, robe flapping, as he dashed to Fëanor and snatched him into his arms.   
  
“Where have you been? Do you have any idea how worried you made me? I couldn’t _find_ you in any of your usual places. I was so worried.” Father pressed kisses into Fëanor’s face, clutching him against his chest.  
  
Fëanor sunk his hands in his father’s braids, stomach pinching. He’d not meant to make Father worried; he’d just wanted to run away for a little while.  
  
“Never, again, Fëanor, never again.” Father rocked him. “I can’t lose you.”  
  
“I only wanted to get away from those boys, Father.” Fëanor’s voice wobbled. His father’s eyes glistened with tears. “They were awful, and I hated it there—”  
  
“Shh, all that’s over now.” His father carried him back to his room and tucked Fëanor into bed, but instead of blowing out the candles and leaving Fëanor alone, Father laid down in the bed beside him. He pulled Fëanor into his arms, and Fëanor snuggled against him like they would do some nights before Indis came and ruined everything.  
  
His father never forced him into building friendships again. There were no more ‘peer outings’ after that day no matter how Indis tried to separate Fëanor from his father.


	4. Chapter 4

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 4  
  
Fëanor’s thoughts poured out of him onto the parchment at a rate so rapid his hand couldn’t keep up and the resulting lines were only discernible to his eyes. Hírandir’s conclusions were _ridiculous_ , and he would show everyone blind enough not to see the gaping holes in Hírandir’s argument himself.  
  
This was the great work of one of the most ’promising’ apprentices in the city? It was rubbish, and could have only been published from sheer blindness on Hírandir’s master’s part (or worse politics, for Hírandir was a lord’s son of one of the great Houses).  
  
“Still here, Fëanor?” Fëanor scowled as his train of thought was interpreted. He looked up to find Master Rúmil leaning against the door’s frame. “I would have thought to find you with your father pacing the waiting chamber. I heard Indis went into seclusion for the birth.”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth set in a hard line. “I’m too busy to waste my time waiting for babies.”  
  
He shoved the reminder of the coming baby away (as if he’d been able to forget for even one moment after he’d seen the way Father’s face broke into a huge smile when he told Fëanor, as if he expected Fëanor to be happy Indis tried to replace him. Indis had wanted him uprooted from his father’s heart since she killed his mother).  
  
Master Rúmil pushed off from the door’s frame, walking to Fëanor’s table strewn with parchment and books. He didn’t try to read over Fëanor’s shoulder, knowing from years of tutoring how Fëanor’s shoulders would twitch and his hands snatch the words away to hide them. Fëanor didn’t show off his work until it was _perfect_.  
  
“What are you working on?”  
  
Fëanor didn’t hesitate to tell him. Master Rúmil never brushed him off as ‘too young.’ Fëanor was _sick_ of being brushed off and talked down to as if he had the brain size of a pea. So what if he was only seven years old? He wasn’t like other seven year olds; anyone with half a brain could see that.  
  
Fëanor turned frustrated eyes up at Master Rúmil. “Hírandir’s statistics are biased in the worst way: they’re _lazy_.” Fëanor couldn’t abide laziness in a so-called professional work.  
  
Master Rúmil hummed, running his finger over the shape of his mouth. “Do you mind if I take a look at your findings?”  
  
The fierceness of Fëanor’s glower lightened. Master Rúmil wouldn’t brush him off as so many others did and tell him to run along and _play_.  
  
No one wanted to answer Fëanor’s questions. They would try to shut up Fëanor’s ‘why’s’ with: ‘This is just the way the world works.’ Then the world was wrong, and needed changing. But how could Fëanor learn how to improve the world if he didn’t ask why it was like this to begin with?  
  
Master Rúmil touched Fëanor’s shoulder. “What deep thoughts are stirring in that amazing mind of yours now, child?”  
  
Fëanor blew out a puff of breath, hands coming up to punctuate his points as he articulated his frustrations to one of the only people who listened to him, really listened. Master Rúmil nodded along to some of his points, frowning over others, humming here and there. That was what Fëanor liked about Master Rúmil, he came back with his own ideas and criticisms of Fëanor, not the criticisms of a pat on the head and a dismissal of everything he’d said, but the criticisms an equal would give. Fëanor would answer back, arguing his points until he’d won Master Rúmil over (because of course Fëanor’s points were the right ones, Master Rúmil just didn’t see that yet).  
  
Before Fëanor could drive his point home, they were interrupted by a servant announcing himself with a knock on the door frame. “Prince Fëanor, your father requests your presence in the Birthing Chamber.”  
  
Fëanor swallowed, hands flying to his notes, busying himself with organizing and stacking them into a tidy pile. If Father had been permitted into the Birthing Chamber, the baby had arrived. He licked his lips.  
  
Master Rúmil’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Everything will work out, Fëanor. Remember, it’s your baby brother or sister who has entered the world. This is an occasion of joy and thanksgiving. Keep your heart open, and you may be surprised what you find.”  
  
Fëanor’s hands shook. He curled them into fists and headed for the door. He could hear their laughter before he reached the door of the Birthing Chamber. Had his father’s voice carried that note of high joy at Fëanor’s birth, or had Mother’s sickness already begun to set in?  
  
The door had been left half-open, and Fëanor paused with his hand on the handle, watching them. Indis’ cheeks were pale but her eyes bright as she cradled the little bundle against her chest. His father sat beside her on the bed, smiling like he’d never imagined such happiness as this moment.  
  
“He’s beautiful,” Father touched the baby’s cheek, a look of awe in his eyes as if the baby was perfection itself.  
  
Fëanor’s chest felt too tight, his heart squeezed painfully. It was a son. A brand new son who hadn’t made his mother sick, who the Valar would never call marred and a potential for evil while his father sat silent and unobjecting.  
  
Fëanor’s hand tightened on the door’s handle, knuckles going white. He needed Father to look up, look up and see him. Father would look up and see Fëanor, and the smile that would take his face would make the one he’d worn looking at the new son pale like the flame of a match set next to Laurelin’s light. He would call out for Fëanor to join him, lifting his arms for Fëanor to tuck into them. He would show Fëanor the new son. Fëanor would examine the baby’s face with critical eyes, and find it not as beautiful as himself (Fëanor took after his mother, after all, and Indis was nothing to Míriel). Fëanor would give his judgment, being merciful and telling Father the baby would do. Maybe he’d even think it might not be so bad, this new son, since the new son didn’t make Father smile as brightly as Fëanor did, and much could be forgiven with his father’s arms about him.  
  
But Father didn’t notice him standing in the door. He only had eyes for the new son. Fëanor backed away, chest so tight, tight, tight, he couldn’t draw breath in through his lungs. Fëanor turned and ran. He went to his room this time (he wanted to be found).  
  
He slammed the door behind him and threw himself on the bed belly first. He buried his face in his pillow and waited. But his father never came to stand outside Fëanor’s door, knocking and calling for him until Fëanor relented and opened to door for Father to pull him into a hug, kiss him, and tell him how much he loved him.  
  
His father never came. Fëanor knew, for he waited all night for him, lying sleepless and tossing in the dark, ears straining for footsteps that never came. Father didn’t come because he was with his new son, the one he loved better.  
  
Fëanor had been replaced.  
  
*  
  
Fëanor resisted all his father’s attempted for him to ‘get to know his brother.’ Half-brother.  
  
Fëanor saw the boy at meal times, though he employed his not inconsiderable cleverness to avoid these as well. He had important things to do. He had his studies –he was teaching himself Telerin, beginning his instruction in the arts, and experimenting with the limits of his body’s endurance—he didn’t have patience to stare at a brat for hours as it gurgled. Well, he supposed the baby had passed the gurgling stage. Fëanor heard it talking at table, not that he cared to listen to its chatter.  
  
Fëanor passed a gaggle of lords’ sons his own age as he made his way to the library. They were playing some asinine game and crowing with laughter at each other’s less then clever remarks. He kept walking, the sight slipping from his mind like the unimportant matter it was. Such children weren’t worth his time.  
  
He was eleven years old now, their dismissal of him (or their sycophanting when their father’s sent them his way) no longer touched him. He had much more important things to occupy his thoughts with and Elves worthy of his time to surround himself with. He wouldn’t waste a spare thought on Elves determined to walk through the world blind and witless.  
  
Fëanor reached the library and shot straight for the science section. He had the library memorized, having read every book within. If only he had the perfect memory of a fully-matured Elf, he wouldn’t have had to bother looking up Master Caramir’s published works.  
  
His review of Master Caramir’s research should be published when he finished writing it. It wouldn’t be. His tutors would read it, but it would go no further then that because none of the other masters would take his words seriously.  
  
Master Rúmil had earned Fëanor’s respect because he would read Fëanor’s work not only as a tutor searching for flaws, but as a master assessing the work of another (or a potential one, Fëanor hadn’t earned the right to be numbered among the Master’s yet, not for lack of ability, but because no one would accept his challenge for the entrance debates on account of his age!).  
  
The other masters tried to pat Fëanor on the head when he argued his point against the legitimate defects in such and such’s supporting evidence, or worse, _laughed_.  
  
His father never failed to listen to Fëanor, but sometimes Fëanor feared his father too only humored him. Mother would have listened. Even as a child she’d looked at him as if every word from his mouth was a gem. Not even father did that.  
  
Fëanor missed her. He always missed her.  
  
The clenching of Fëanor’s heart burned away in the clean fire of conviction. He wasn’t going to stop criticizing his ‘elder’s’ life’s work, or asking questions, no matter how uncomfortable it made the Elves around him. They didn’t want to hear about the flaws in their ‘perfect’ land anymore then they wanted to hear about pain and grief.  
  
Fëanor found Master Caramir’s work exactly where he remembered it, and pulled the book from the shelf, too impatient to wait until he’d reached his room before flipping through it.  
  
His eyes were too intent upon the master’s findings to watch where his feet landed. He stepped on something that should not be in the middle of the library’s rows. The book went flying, and Fëanor only just caught himself on the shelf to avoid a fall.  
  
Fëanor glared down at the…toy horse. He bent and picked it up, his eyes running critically over the craftsmanship.  
  
“’m sorry. I didn’t put Rochallor away when I was done playing like Father says.” Fëanor’s eyes snapped up at the high, clear voice.  
  
 _The boy_ stood at the row’s entrance, looking up at Fëanor. He had no shoes on, and his toes wiggled against the floor boards. His black hair hung loose about his shoulders in wild waves. Fëanor had worn his hair without braids too at that age, unable to sit still long enough for the tedious process. The boy had Father’s eyes. Fëanor had noted it before, but tried to forget it immediately after every time he looked too long at the new son’s face.  
  
Fëanor swallowed, fingers clenching about the toy. “You should listen to your father. Someone could get hurt next time.”  
  
The boy cocked his head, staring at Fëanor with his blue eyes that hurt to look into. “Did Father tell you not to leave your toys out to when you were little too?”  
  
Fëanor scowled. “I never made messes.” He stalked toward the boy, expecting him to jump aside and let him pass, but the boy kept standing there, looking up at him.  
  
“Never? Not even at table or when you played outside?”  
  
“Why are you talking to me?” Fëanor growled, stopping right in front of the boy to use his height to tower over the tinny thing.  
  
The boy blinked. “I always want to talk to you, but you’re never here to talk to. Except at meal times, but Mother says I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full and that you don’t like to be bothered when you eat. But you’re not eating now.”  
  
Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t like to be bothered by inane chatter.”  
  
“Does that mean I can talk to you now?”  
  
“No.” Fëanor swept passed the boy.  
  
Little feet pattered after him. “Will you read me a story?”  
  
Fëanor sneered. “Can’t you read yet? How old are you?”  
  
“Four!”  
  
“I could read by the time I was three.” Not very well, but the boy didn’t need to know that.  
  
“You could, really? Father says you’re the smartest boy who ever lived.”  
  
Fëanor’s step faulted. Father had said that?  
  
The boy’s little body smacked into the back of his legs at Fëanor’s abrupt stop, and bounced off to hit the floor on his bottom. Fëanor chanced a glance back, grimacing, expecting the wailing and tears to start up now.  
  
“Ow.” The boy climbed back to his feet, dry-eyed. He peered up at Fëanor with those painful blue eyes. “Will you teach me to read like you?”  
  
“No.” Fëanor spun and marched for the door. Little feet pattered after. Fëanor swept around, hair spinning out behind him, to aim a glare down at the boy. “Stop following me!”  
  
“Can I watch you read?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Can I sit with you?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Can I—”  
  
“Leave me alone!” Fëanor flung out his hand to the side, pointing a finger for the boy to _go_.  
  
The boy frowned, his first expression of displeasure. “But you have Rochallor.”  
  
Fëanor looked down at the toy clenched in his fist. “Here.” He thrust the horse at the boy.  
  
A smile Fëanor almost thought sly spread over the boy’s cheeks as he reached up to take the horse. The boy’s hand somehow found itself in Fëanor’s, holding on with a surprising strong grip. Fëanor looked back at the boy. The boy smiled up at Fëanor. “Can we play now?”  
  
Fëanor wrestled his hand free. “No!” His boots snapped around as he gave his back to the boy. “And don’t follow me!”  
  
The library door banged shut behind him. Fëanor marched all the way to the end of the corridor before he realized he’d left Master Caramir’s book on the floor. He looked back at the library door, squared his shoulders, and stalked back. He wasn’t afraid of some boy.  
  
Fëanor tried to be sneaky about his re-entry (just a matter of saving himself the time he would waste on the boy’s surprising stubbornness), but the boy caught him out. The boy came dashing around the row’s corner as Fëanor picked up the fallen book. The boy wore a smile so huge it crinkled his eyes and seemed to engulf his whole face.  
  
“You came back!” The boy threw himself at Fëanor’s legs, hugging his knees. “Can we play now?”  
  
Fëanor’s hands fluttered over the boy’s shoulders, not quite touching. The boy’s face turned up to his, tinny arms still wrapped about Fëanor like he was his favorite stuffed plush. The boy ginned a toothy grin, eyes bright as jewels.  
  
“I…no, just, just let go.”  
  
“Are we going to sit together then?”  
  
Fëanor licked his lips. The ‘no’ got stuck in his throat. He opened his mouth to force it out, but what came out was ‘alright.’ How had that happened? But the boy laughed, a sound of pure happiness, snatching up one of Fëanor’s hands and pulling him forward, and somehow, somehow Fëanor couldn’t regret it.  
  
“Shh,” the boy turned back to him, pressing a finger over his smiling mouth. “Mother’s taking a nap.”  
  
Fëanor peeked around the row’s corner with the boy, both their dark heads popping out to spy the slumbering form of Indis napping in a patch of sunlight. Her belly protruded with the next baby Mother had died to bring into the world.  
  
The boy crooked his head up to meet Fëanor’s eyes. “We have to be really quiet, like mice.”  
  
“Yes.” Fëanor nodded with complete seriousness. He’d like Indis to sleep for the next hundred years, the less of her in the world, the better. The boy covered his mouth with his hand as he giggled.  
  
“Come on, we’ll sit out in the glass-garden.” Fëanor led the way to one of the palace’s most peaceful spots.  
  
A fountain bubbled with a clear, soothing sound at its center as the all-glass walls let in colored strips of Laurelin’s light, allowing green things to thrive. Fëanor settled down in a patch of blue light. The boy climbed right into his lap without invitation. Fëanor shifted, hands fumbling with his book as the boy leaned his back against Fëanor’s chest.  
  
He boy titled his head back to look up at Fëanor. “Are you going to read a story?”  
  
“No, I’m…I’m reading about science.” Fëanor cleared his throat and opened the book, finding his place. “I don’t like chatter while I’m reading.” He reminded the boy. The boy nodded, little hands coming to rest on top of Fëanor’s and his head leaning forward to peer at the words. “Lean back. I can’t see the words with your head in the way.”  
  
The boy obeyed. Fëanor went back to his reading. He had low expectations of how long the boy could sit still and quiet. It would be a relief to have an excuse to send the boy away. A relief. Nothing else. Why would he feel anything else?  
  
The boy kept quiet for ten pages. Fëanor was reluctantly impressed. He wouldn’t have been able to sit quiet and still for that length of time at the boy’s age. Of course his mind would have been busy observing his world.  
  
“What does it say?” The boy craned his head up to look at Fëanor.  
  
Fëanor frowned. “Quiet.” Fëanor went back to his reading, but couldn’t concentrate with the boy staring at him like that. Didn’t he having anything better to do? Fëanor turned a scowl down on the boy. The boy’s face split into a smile the moment Fëanor left off reading to give him attention.  
  
“It’s about science. I told you.” Fëanor shifted his legs about, jostling the boy. The boy didn’t complain over the treatment though.  
  
“But what is it saying?”  
  
Fëanor ran a hand through his hair, tucking it back behind his ears. “Heat. It’s about heat.”  
  
“Like light?” The boy lifted his hands, turning them this way and that in the light falling blue through the colored glass.  
  
“No,” Fëanor’s hand rose from the book to wave with the boy’s through the air. “The light gives off heat, yes?” The boy nodded, eyes fixed on Fëanor’s face. “But there are other ways to create heat. One of them is friction. Now, we don’t use the thermal energy created by friction to say, light a fire, but it has fascinating possibilities we haven’t even begun to explore!”  
  
The boy bit his lip. “What’s friction?”  
  
Fëanor picked up the boy’s hands, holding them between his own larger ones. “Rub your hands together, fast.” The boy did as told. “Do you feel that, the heat you generated?”  
  
“My skin’s warm!” The boy turned a brilliant grin up at Fëanor.  
  
Fëanor’s mouth bloomed into a smile of his own, and he was off, explaining the amazing world of science to the four year old. It didn’t take him long to forget to shorten his words and slow his speech, but though his hands danced in the air with the rapid firing of his words and the boy couldn’t understand any of this, the boy never took his eyes off Fëanor’s face.  
  
Fëanor’s eyes kept seeking out the boy’s, finding them riveted on him every time, as if…as if every word Fëanor spoke was a gem. No one had ever looked at Fëanor like that. No one but Mother. Fëanor’s chest tightened, words trailing off, eyes locked with the boy’s.  
  
The boy smiled and lifted himself off Fëanor’s lap to wrap his arms about Fëanor’s neck. Fëanor’s hands came up on instinct to steady the little body, finding purchase on the slender line of a back. The warmth of the boy’s skin soaked though his tunic and into Fëanor’s palms.  
  
The boy pressed his grinning mouth into Fëanor’s neck. “I want you to come be my big brother for ever and ever.”  
  
*  
  
Fëanor paced the threshold of the palace doors, hair snapping about him every time he revolved on the ball of his foot to walk another strip of the stones. His long fingers tapped against the skin of his sketchbook with increasing impatience. His eyes swept the corridors, seeking the tardy boy, but found nothing but Elves giving him _looks_ and shying around him. He didn’t have time for this!  
  
Fëanor spun around, ready to forget the boy (it’s what Fingolfin deserved for making Fëanor wait), when a voice called his name in that clear, excited voice he’d grown to know by heart. He stayed his steps, looking back. Fingolfin pelted down the corridor, waving wildly at Fëanor and calling out that he was coming! Yes, Fëanor could see that quite well.  
  
Fingolfin’s sandals smacked against the stones, and his white shirt fluttered out behind him (tunic misplaced somewhere between this morning’s dressing and a day of more mischief then he should have been able to get up to in his lessons).  
  
Fingolfin skidded to a stop beside Fëanor, chest heaving. “Sorry! I had to give my tutor the slip—”  
  
“Not Master Rúmil, I trust?”  
  
“No, maths.”  
  
“Alright then.”  
  
“—And I almost got caught, so I had to hide in the servant’s closet until my maths tutor left, and he kept puttering around, you know how he does—”  
  
“Yes, yes, let’s go.”  
  
Fëanor turned and started down the steps leading to the palace doors. He didn’t look down at the dark head coming to walk beside him when a small hand found its way into his. He cupped his fingers around it. They were going out into the city, and Fingolfin was only six after all, it was only right Fëanor keep an eye on him, and what better way than to physically hold onto him?  
  
Fingolfin asked questions, exclaimed over this and that, and chattered along as they walked. Fëanor answered every question with the kind of thorough answers he himself would have wanted.  
  
Fëanor could not always tolerate the boy’s presence. Fingolfin had an annoying tendency to mess around and get into messes. Such behavior was not acceptable when Fëanor worked on delicate experiments. Fingolfin had upset his very last experiment Fëanor would ever take him to see when he bumped into the table because he’d been running around Fëanor’s work space; he’d sent Fëanor’s precisely placed instruments crashing to the floor. Fëanor had, naturally, exploded in anger and banished the boy from his presence for a month.  
  
Yet, while Fingolfin could be vexing (and Fëanor never held himself back from lashing out during these episodes), Fëanor kept letting him tag after him because Fingolfin was special. Fingolfin looked at him like everything Fëanor said was of vital importance.  
  
It didn’t matter that Fingolfin couldn’t understand, though Fëanor hoped (secretly) Fingolfin would one day. He didn’t want Fingolfin to be one of those simple-minded fools. He wanted Fingolfin to be clever, really clever. So that one day Fingolfin could debate with him and follow his mind down the paths of true sight. Fingolfin would never be as clever as Fëanor, but Fëanor had resigned himself to never finding his equal in intellect.  
  
Fëanor allowed Fingolfin to follow him today, for today’s goal did not involve equipment that could be upset by a six year old with a perchance for mischief. Today Fëanor would capture life with his pencil.  
  
His eyes had been caught yesterday by a woman sweeping the dust and shavings from a carpenter’s shop out into the street. She’d had her hair tied back with a handkerchief as the Elves of the artisans’ district favored, and their eyes had met for a moment. He’d seen the soul of the Noldor inside her. He’d seen a glimmer of himself. That hunger for so much more than this, a thirst for life, for doing, building, reaching, climbing higher and higher, no limits, nothing to hold them back from breaking through the ceiling of the impossible and discovering what lay beyond.  
  
Fëanor turned into the artisans’ district, and wove through the crowds, pulling Fingolfin by the hand after him. He found the workshop he’d seen the woman at without trouble, and sat himself down on the doorstep opposite.  
  
This lane did not boast as many customers and sight-seers as the masters’ did. The shops blocked most of Laurelin’s light from entering the narrow lane, and piles of woodcarvings and trash littered it, waiting for the street sweepers to find their way down from the busier streets and sweep clean. The air of neglect and gasping hunger hung about the place, of dreams unmet but not forsaken.  
  
Fingolfin settled next to him on the step. The boy did not speak as Fëanor opened his sketchbook and arranged his case of pencils, charcoal, and sharpening knives. Fëanor selected the perfect tool for today’s work, and readied himself for the woman’s appearance.  
  
He’d trained Fingolfin not to interrupt him while he worked unless it was a worthy question. But now Fëanor had prepared and a wait set it, he gave Fingolfin the silent signal he’d invented to allow Fingolfin freedom of speech. Fingolfin jumped on it with all the eagerness of his six years.  
  
Fingolfin was one of those rare, special people who did not bore Fëanor with their chatter. Now Fëanor had instructed Fingolfin’s eyes and mind down the road of true sight, Fingolfin’s questions were worthy ones more often than not. Fëanor had also impressed upon Fingolfin how much he did not like idle chit-chat, and the boy obeyed his wishes (as he should) for the most part. There were times his tongue ran away with him, but Fëanor continued to teach him in this by ignoring Fingolfin when he talked about things of no importance. Fingolfin hated it when Fëanor ignored him.  
  
Fëanor explained everything from the schedule of the street sweepers to how the angle of the light’s fall could help them calculate how many hours to and from the Mingling.  
  
Fingolfin, being of a curious nature Fëanor approved of, wanted to see Fëanor’s pervious sketches. Fëanor showed him his work. Fingolfin exclaimed over them, fingers trailing the lines with the reverence Fëanor traced his mother’s work.  
  
Fëanor’s heart swelled. He smiled at Fingolfin when the boy looked up. Fingolfin’s eyes lit up like blue jewels gathering light.


	5. Chapter 5

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 5

Fingolfin cast a glance over his shoulder. Finding himself alone, he pulled out the bag of chocolates one of the cooks had slipped him for being such a ‘sweetheart.’ Mother would scold him if she caught him eating sweets this close to luncheon, but Mother didn’t need to know.

He popped one into his mouth with a grin, sucking softly as it melted on his tongue. He peered into the belly of the bag, counting how many were left. There were still enough to share with Fëanor. Fingolfin tucked the bag away, satisfied.

His palms pressed the double doors of the Corridor of Lore open, taking care to shut them softly behind him. His was not a face seen in this corridor during the lunch hour. The moment his tutors released him, he shot out into the gardens, or ran through the halls of the palace for Mother’s solar to pet his new brother’s golden hair and play blocks with Irimë on the floor. If he was very lucky, Fëanor would let him help with whatever important task occupied Fëanor at the moment. Fingolfin accepted his tutors’ scolding for not showing up to his afternoon lessons on those days, the extra lines and maths problems worth enduring for his big brother’s company.

Today Mother had told him Father would be joining them for lunch. Fingolfin wanted to show Father the glass swan he’d made for Mother this morning, but his arts tutor had taken it for assessing. His tutor said he showed true promise, a natural, with this medium. Fingolfin spent the rest of the lesson unable to sit still. He wanted to launch himself out the door and tell Fëanor and Father what his tutor had said. 

Fingolfin had shown little talent in sculpting or the working of metal and gems, but now, finally, he’d found a craft he was a ‘natural’ in! Fëanor might give him one of his brisk nods while his mouth curled in the first folds of a smile (no one had a smile like Fëanor), and Fingolfin would know he’d met Fëanor’s approval. Father might even boast to everyone who would listen of Fingolfin’s promise like he talked of Fëanor, and only Fëanor, his whole face consumed with pride.

Fingolfin reached the door of his arts tutor’s study. A patch of golden light painted the corridor’s floor and the opposite wall from where the door hung open a crack. Voices floated out with the light. Fingolfin caught his own name, and pressed his face to the crack, eyes peering in.

His maths tutor held his glass swan up to a shaft of light, examining it for flaws. Fingolfin’s music and arts tutors sat at one of the study’s couches, wine glasses in hand. Master Rúmil stood with the maths tutor, gaze running over the work.

His maths tutor pronounced his judgment: “Decent work for a beginner.”

“Decent!” His arts tutor said. “A good deal more than decent I should say. The young prince shows real talent.”

Fingolfin’s heart swelled. It popped the next moment, leaving a hollow feeling in his chest.

“It hardly compares to Prince Fëanor’s work. He could have made such a bobble blindfolded at Prince Fingolfin’s age.”

“Come now, that’s too harsh a measurement.” His music tutor set his wine glass down. “We can’t compare the two. Prince Fëanor is in a class of his own. For a child of Prince Fingolfin’s age it does show promise.”

“Hmm,” his maths tutor made to set the swan aside, but Master Rúmil took it from him. His fingers ran over the delicate curve of the swan’s neck, along the feathered pattern Fingolfin had so painstakingly worked into the wings. 

His math’s tutor wasn’t done, “He should stick with forming a solid basis in the core subjects before branching out. He’s certainly not above average in my discipline.”

Fingolfin’s cheeks burned. He tried to hide from his father and Fëanor how much he struggled in maths. He just couldn’t find an interest in them when his hands itched to be busy doing and exploring, and Laurelin called so sweetly for him to come play out in her light. Literature and composition came easier, for his mind could do all his playing and imagining within them until the work seemed more of a game then a chore. He’d developed an interest in the sciences as well, for they reminded him of Fëanor. If he had no gift in artistry, he’d been determined to not fall short in science at the least. 

He wanted to be smart like Fëanor. He wanted Fëanor to find him so. When Fëanor explored the world and re-made it into something greater and better, Fingolfin didn’t want to be left behind. He never wanted to be far from Fëanor’s side.

Master Rúmil set the swan aside. “I have found Prince Fingolfin of quick mind.”

“As have I,” nodded his music tutor.

“Not everyone has the discipline and stamina for the more _logic_ based disciplines.” His maths tutor sneered.

His music teacher rolled his eyes. “Let us try to remember the young prince is all of _eight years_.”

“And let us remember Prince Fingolfin has his own talents.” Master Rúmil leaned his hip against the desk. “He is of uncommonly friendly and charming disposition, not only making friends swiftly, but keeping them. This will serve him well as a prince, as will his tendency to—”

Fingolfin didn’t stay to hear more. He’d never measure up to Fëanor. He knew that, had always know. But he tried so _hard_. He didn’t like being left behind, not when Fëanor rejected his presence, and not when the bar Fëanor had set left Fingolfin’s fingers forever slipping off its hold.

Fingolfin’s feet wandered down the Corridor of Lore. He didn’t feel up to a lunch sitting across from Father who would smile at him encouragingly and ask him to tell how his studies were going. Father wouldn’t have had to make his smile encouraging if it was Fëanor he looked at. It would have been proud, for how could Fëanor fail at anything?

Fingolfin’s mouth set. Well, he would just have to get better so one day he never failed at anything either. Then Father’s eyes would shine with pride and Fëanor would never want to leave him behind again. He would do his tutors’ assignments, even his maths, right away; he would listen harder during his hours of instruction and to Father and Fëanor when they explained things about the world. He would work hard and one day be so smart even Fëanor admitted he was as clever as him.

That decided, Fingolfin pulled out his chocolates and popped another in his mouth. He headed further down the Corridor of Lore to the library. He would start by reading that book of grammar Master Rúmil had told him to read but Fingolfin had been putting off because it looked so boring.

Fingolfin forgot all about the grammar book when he saw Fëanor sitting at his favorite library table, stacks of books and parchments piled up around him. Golden light spilled over him from a high window as he scribbled furiously over his parchment, covering it with that illegible scrawl his penmanship disintegrated into when a thought caught him and he couldn’t get it down at the pace his mind raced.

His back didn’t hunch, even caught in the flood of an idea, Fëanor looked perfect. Of course he did. He was perfect. 

Fingolfin watched him, knowing better then to interrupt, until the flood ebbed and Fëanor sat back with a sigh, hand flexing. 

Fingolfin boldly marched over to the chair beside Fëanor and sat without permission. Sometimes it was better to ambush Fëanor with his presence and not give him a chance to object. 

Fingolfin’s knobby knee banged against the table’s leg as he sat. He bit the inside of his cheek until the pain ebbed. Even when he’d been a baby, Mother said, he’d never been a child to cry over scraped knees. 

Fingolfin peaked up through thick lashes at Fëanor’s profile. Fëanor spared him barely a glance as he pulled forward a book he’d left open, pushed aside to make way for the idea’s outpouring. Fingolfin didn’t let disappointment sprout in his chest. Fëanor hadn’t ordered him away or stalked off leaving Fingolfin behind.

“What are you reading?” The question slipped out. He wasn’t supposed to interrupt.

“If you are going to be an obtuse sprog, kindly remove yourself from my presence.” Fëanor flipped a page in his book, not looking up.

Fëanor had taken to talking like this, all elegantly structured sentences filled with long, complicated words Fingolfin didn’t understand. Father had told him that Fëanor was going through a ‘stage in preparation for adulthood’ and not to let it worry him for Fëanor would soon return to normal. Fingolfin wasn’t convinced. Fëanor, being the cleverest Elf in all the world with no patience for the witless, would very likely keep talking like this just to weed out the intelligent from those not worth wasting his time on.

Fingolfin bit his lip. Fëanor got smarter every year. Fingolfin had to hurry and catch up if he didn’t want to be left behind.

Fingolfin watched Fëanor’s tapered fingers flip through the book, brow furrowing. He handled the pages as if they were delicate flower buds. 

Fingolfin leaned closer. It only took a few sentences to see Fëanor had yet to move on from his most recent interest. Fëanor had discovered the ‘beauty of words’ and, as it always was with Fëanor when he got a new project in his head, had become obsessed with it.

Fingolfin turned his eyes up to Fëanor’s face. He stared at his brother’s profile until Fëanor acknowledge his presence. Fëanor turned, mouth a tight line. His mouth softened as his eyes met Fingolfin’s.

When Fëanor gave Fingolfin his attention, the thoughts that tempted Fingolfin’s eyes away from his studies and out the window vanished like mist greeted by Laurelin’s golden light crawling across the grass. 

“Will you tell me what you’re reading about?”

The minute Fëanor relented and began explaining his recent findings to Fingolfin, Fingolfin had won his brother for the afternoon. Fëanor forgot all about being annoyed in the joy of sharing his newest discovery. He pushed the book he’d been perusing under Fingolfin’s nose, voice rising in excitement and shapely hands waving about as he tried to make Fingolfin understand how wonderful this new word was.

Fingolfin liked watching Fëanor. It was these moments that made every dismissive glance worth it. Fëanor’s eyes were lit with an inner fire, his voice impassioned; his focus all for Fingolfin. 

Fëanor, when he was not busy being irritated by others’ stupidity, delighted in teaching about the world he was in love with. Especially Fingolfin.

When a new idea entranced him, or the enchantment of creation sucked him in, irritations slipped off his shoulders. The impatience itching under his skin at the dullness of others’ minds and the flaws his eyes saw folded through every institution of their world, found a purpose as his hands were finally busy _doing_ something. Something he wanted to do, something he delighted in, something that stimulated and intrigued him. 

He was currently in love with words. Words had their own kind of science. Each word had an etymology, and he thrilled in the discovery of origins, unspinning things until he got at their roots. 

He reveled in knowing the romance that lay within each word. Words were as living as the metals and gems that took shape beneath his hands. They were tokens of thoughts, and just as unpredictable and wild. 

Yet Master Rúmil’s Sarati alphabet confined them. Couldn’t everyone see how strangled the words were, boxed into structured runes that left no room to stretch, to grow, to breathe! Imprisoned in the runes, the words were like dead things. Fëanor was determined to give them life.

Fingolfin’s face turned up, like a flower to the sun, as Fëanor’s inflamed words spilled out, tangled up with words upon words Fingolfin could not comprehend, but loved hearing rolling off his brother’s tongue in the most perfect music of the world: “…and Master Rúmil confirmed my hypothesis that the word had originated from the root ‘to exercise.’ Not that I needed collaborating evidence for my theory, but Cévanno has the incommodious tendency of being cantankerous. Regardless, I was justified, as I knew I would be. Yet Cévanno persists ‘ascetic’ is not synonyms with ‘abstemious’, which is just his obnoxious habit of not using the limited intelligence Eru was pitying enough to confer upon him.”

“I’m going to marry you when I grow up,” Fingolfin blurted. 

He’d not considered the idea before it leapt out, yet now it hit the air and grew substance, it felt right. Just perfect. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more. If he and Fëanor were married they would be together forever, and Fëanor could never leave him again.

Fëanor’s speech came to a stuttering halt. He’d actually stuttered! Fingolfin almost giggled as Fëanor blinked down at him with wide eyes. Fingolfin pressed his hand to his mouth to catch the laughter before it upset Fëanor and the wide-eyed expression morphed into a scowl.

Fingolfin set his chin and gave Fëanor a stubborn look. “I want to marry you when I get as tall as Father. You have to promise. You can’t marry anyone else. You have to wait for me.” 

Fëanor’s eyes darted away from the face shoved very close to his own. He fidgeted with the pages of his precious books before slamming them all closed and pushing them about in unnecessarily tidy piles. “I am not playing one of your foolish games.”

“It’s not a game!” For emphasis, to snag his brother’s wandering attention, Fingolfin climbed boldly into Fëanor’s unsuspecting lap. 

After a moment with Fëanor’s hands pushing at him (though without determination), Fingolfin realized the position made him look like a baby, and he desperately wanted Fëanor to see him as grown up as he felt. So he swung one leg over Fëanor’s lap, straddling him as he’d seen girls do to boys in the kitchens when he’d spied upon them.

Fingolfin did not like the way Fëanor refused to meet his eyes, so he grabbed his brother’s face between his palms, pausing a moment as a funny sort of pleasure stirred in him to hold the face hints of a boyish roundness lingered in underneath the blossoming harness of a jaw. Fëanor’s skin was so hot under his hands its heat sunk into Fingolfin’s own, down, down, down until his bones were warm, like he napped in sunbeams. 

“You have to promise, Fëanor. You have to promise to marry me.”

Fëanor turned a bemused, indulgent look upon him. “Very well, _Fingolfin_.” Fingolfin’s eyes widened at the way his brother said his name. It sounded foreign, but strong and mysterious, like the name of a grownup stranger. Fingolfin liked it. “When you have attained your majority, we shall wed. I hope you will wait a few more years though before sending out the invitations.”

Fëanor mocked him! Fingolfin was not about to let Fëanor turn this into a game. It was deadly serious. “You have to kiss me now,” he decided, and sure enough the amusement tumbled off Fëanor’s lips. “Like grownups do when they get married.” 

He’d almost said like Mother and Father, but caught himself just in time. He must not mention mothers in Fëanor’s presence. The words never failed to take Fëanor away from him, vicious words falling from a vicious, but oh so loved mouth, ringing in his ears.

“That is enough, Fingolfin.” Fëanor’s hands settled on Fingolfin’s hips to push him off. But Fingolfin would have none of that. If they kissed then their promise would be sealed, like in the stories, and Fëanor would not be able to leave him. Ever. 

“You’re supposed to kiss when you decide to get married. It’s special because it’s your first kiss and that means you remember it forever and ever.” 

The way Fëanor’s eyes shifted about, his hands fluttering awkwardly from place to place on Fingolfin’s body as if not quite sure where he should lay them for a good push, got Fingolfin excited. He’d been afraid Fëanor would have already kissed someone else and promised to marry them. But nobody would be this gawky if they’d already kissed. 

With this reassurance, he darted forward, lips clasping clumsily with Fëanor’s. The chocolates he’d gobbled down had left their aftertaste in his mouth. He could taste their sugary sweetness clinging to his own lips and Fëanor would as well. 

Fingolfin’s belly flipped, amazed at his own boldness. His plan to keep Fëanor with him forever was clever, but that he would override Fëanor so completely was as thrilling as it was astounding. He was growing up fast now; soon he would stand at Fëanor’s shoulder.

To prevent his prize from shrugging him off, Fingolfin threw gangly arms, sharp elbows, and curious hands about his brother’s neck, letting his fingers act like eyes and burrow into the silky mass of darkness falling about Fëanor’s shoulders.

Fëanor’s mouth parted in surprise, or maybe outrage, but Fingolfin wasn’t going to give him a chance to use that sharp tongue against him. His own darted out, licking Fëanor’s lips like favored ice. Fëanor shuddered under him. 

Fingolfin was distracted from his moment of triumph when he felt something uncomfortable under his bottom. He wiggled, trying to get comfortable again. Fëanor let out a sound that had Fingolfin worried his brother couldn’t breathe, before he found himself shoved onto the floor, his bottom now really uncomfortable as it stung from the abrupt landing. 

He looked up at Fëanor with a frown, mouth opened on a complaint, but it shut again at the sight of his bother. Fëanor’s face was flushed like it got when he was really furious. He stared at Fingolfin, eyes so bright Fingolfin thought them pieces of the Two Trees. It wasn’t anger, but it wasn’t a look Fingolfin recognized either. 

Fëanor’s voice came swift, urgent, and tight. It crackled over Fingolfin’s skin like lightening. “You must never play games like this again, do you understand me?”

“But—”

“Do you understand me?!”

The fire in his brother’s eyes sent Fingolfin’s head bobbing a yes, belly churning. 

“You can never tell anyone about this. Not ever Father. Especially not Father.” Fëanor didn’t wait for Fingolfin’s reply. He stormed away, leaving Fingolfin discarded, his heart bruised, on the floor.

Fëanor left home to study smith-craft under Mahtan a few days later. Fingolfin watched his brother’s turned back walk away, leaving him behind without a single goodbye.

*

Fëanor scratched ruthless criticisms over his copy of Master Fimorn’s theories based on Fëanor’s own revolutionary experiments on the nature of light. The Master had, as usual, drawn the wrong conclusions.

Fëanor had taken his first major step in advancing their world when he proved light was not white by nature, taking on color when it passed through a red glass window for instance, as had been the upheld belief, but a spectrum of colors.

That had been Fëanor’s first published work, though most masters still refused to credit it despite the perfections of Fëanor’s experiments and conclusion. Master Fimorn had not shied away from conducting his own experiments to test if Fëanor’s conclusions could hold up under scrutiny (they had, obviously). Fëanor did not fault the master for testing his conclusions, but he did for going on to publish erroneous theories built upon Fëanor’s work.

A debate had sprung up around what exactly light was by those masters’ intelligent enough to take Fëanor seriously. Most masters believed, as Master Fimorn did, that light was formed of waves, some other masters insisted it was formed of millions of tiny particles like dust motes. Fëanor argued light was both. He would prove his conclusions indisputable with his newest paper.

After he published his new work, the other masters couldn’t _possibly_ deny his merit again. There would be no more condescending voices talking down to him and telling him not to meddle in matters ‘beyond his understanding.’ So few took him with the seriousness he deserved. 

Fëanor’s jaw clenched. He was nearly of age, and when he reached his majority no one would be able to deny him his right to call himself a master on the basis of his youth. Once he’d forced them, all of them, to acknowledge him, he could begin pressing for his treatises on controversial issues to be published. He could start asking his questions of the world on a platform that demanded answers.

“Patience, the world isn’t going anywhere.” Fëanor turned at Nerdanel’s voice. Nerdanel watched him from the doorway. A handkerchief caught her stunning hair back, and marble-dust coated her apron.

“How can you stand it when they treat us like a sub-species on account of our age? It is infuriating!”

Nerdanel walked to him and sat beside him at his work-desk. “Their doubts hold only the weight we allow them. If we just,” her hand came up to brush Fëanor’s shoulder, “Cast aside their unjust criticisms, not allowing them to take root, and continue on with our lives, we will find the words of those naysayers mean very little in the scheme of the world.”

Fëanor frowned, considering her words. “But they would hold me back. I will not be _limited_.”

Nerdanel smiled. “No one can hold you back unless _you_ allow them to. If their words did not hold such weight in your mind, they would not be able to touch you.”

Fëanor’s fingers drummed a rhythm out on the wood of the desk. “Yet they would deny me. They would close doors.”

Nerdanel laid her hand over his, stilling the movement. Her strong fingers slid into the gaps between his. His eyes rose to hers, a crease between his brows, not understanding the touch. “There are no doors shut to you here, in my father’s forge, no ceiling to hold you back. Here you can achieve anything. Put aside the words of the ones who would deny you on the petty scale of age, thrust them from your heart, and find contentment in proving them all wrong. Their words cannot change the truth in these hands, in this mind.” The fingers of her free hand came up to brush Fëanor’s temple.

Fëanor’s frown eased away, and a smile curled his mouth. “Your words are wise, Nerdanel. Yes, I will prove them all wrong, and until then I will give no more credence to the most respected of masters than I would any other who has blinded themselves to true sight.” Fëanor made to stand. “Thank you, Nerdanel. I am off to the forge now—”

“Fëanor,” Nerdanel shook her head at him, smiling. She did not release Fëanor’s hand, but pulled it to her breast, right over her heart. Fëanor’s eyes widened, his palm cupping the softness of her breast under her dress. 

Nerdanel closed the distance between their mouths. Fëanor’s eyes stayed open as her mouth pressed against his. He could see the freckles dotting her cheeks, even a dash dancing up her ear. Her eyelids had sealed her lively brown eyes away to leave her lashes curled against her cheek. 

Nerdanel didn’t pull back at Fëanor’s non-response. She made a little humming sound, almost a laugh, and wound her fingers through his hair, deepening the kiss. Fëanor’s eyes slid closed, brow creasing, as he set out upon the task of kissing her, a not unenjoyable task, but one he intended to perfect and excel at as he excelled at everything.

When they pulled apart, Fëanor had been successful. Nerdanel’s cheeks were flushed, her breast heaving. 

“Why did you kiss me?”

“Oh Fëanor!” She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head at him. “I have wanted you to kiss me for months. I decided I may as well do it myself.”

“You have?” Fëanor blinked.

“Yes. Now come kiss me again.” Fëanor did, pushing her words away for further study. 

When she left him, he looked down at the piles of parchments and scattered books around him. She’d said she’d wanted to kiss him for months, but Fëanor could not recall even a stray thought of his own in that direction. He’d admired her hair, wanting to capture its beauty in his work, and he thrilled in their conversations that could last into all hours of the night, neither noticing the passing of time, but he’d not thought about kissing her, not thought about what she looked like under her dress when he lay alone in his bed. He employed all his immense willpower in not thinking about anyone when he pleasured himself lest something perverse reveal itself within him.

Fëanor had conducted experiments after the kiss he’d shared with Fingolfin. He’d needed to know if he lusted after children. So he watched the children of Mathen’s people, carefully monitoring his pulse to see if it accelerated. He turned his awareness to detecting tingles under his skin or curling heat stiffening him, steeling himself for finding stirrings of arousal. But while there had been two occasions of arousal, that data could be thrown out as the outliers, nothing but unconnected instances of arousal based on his body’s youth.

The evidence supported the conclusion that he was not sexually aroused by children. Yet the fact remained that he caught his thoughts turning back to Fingolfin more than could be appropriate. Fëanor found himself missing Fingolfin’s insistent footsteps following behind his as much as he missed his father. That couldn’t be right. But sometimes, when he heard the patter of light, running footsteps, he found himself turning instinctively, expecting to be met by Fingolfin’s’ grinning face, eyes shining as they gazed upon Fëanor as if Fëanor were all that mattered in the world.

*

Fingolfin relaxed, spread out over the garden bench. In the royal family’s private gardens, he could lay his head back on the bench, his feet propped up, one calf crossed over a knee and his foot tapping the air to a beat in his head, and not worry about receiving a scolding from his mother for ‘lack of decorum.’ 

His hair collected flower petals where it spilled over the pillow of the marble and into the bed of daises and bluebells below. Laurelin’s light caressed the pages of the book he’d balanced against his raised thighs, one arm tucked behind his head. 

Being alone, he was free to read aloud without other inhabitants of the library slicing him annoyed looks. Fingolfin found he comprehended complicated material best if it passed over his tongue and into his ears. Sometimes he still had to read a passage twice, even thrice to comprehend it, but he persisted. He may not have Fëanor’s intellect leaping at an awe-inspiring rate, but he had perseverance. He would not be left behind.

Fingolfin’s belly tightened. Fëanor had returned, after three years away with Mahtan’s people without one visit, even one letter to Fingolfin, he had returned. 

Fingolfin’s fingers clenched about the book’s spine. Fëanor had looked… Fëanor did not, as a rule, care over much for his appearance. He didn’t have to put on flashy robes and thread jewels into complicated braids to look perfect just breathing. Fëanor could be covered in mud, and heads would turn to watch him pass with admiration. 

Fëanor had been dressed like a prince when he came home last night. His appearance had not been fastidious –it never was—but he’d looked magnificent. Somehow, without giving the least impression of understanding fashion, Fëanor’s choices for the night were both elegant and a showcase of the finest Noldorin needlework and jewel-craft. 

Fingolfin’s eyes had not been the only set to widen at the picture Fëanor made. None of them should have been surprised. Of course Fëanor would show up even those lords and ladies who employed hours on perfecting their appearance and setting the current trends. This was Fëanáro Curufinwë Serindion, and he was very much his mother’s son.

Fingolfin’s mouth set with determination, and set to his reading again. Fëanor had grown into a man while away; how much further up had that bar Fingolfin ever reached for been set? 

Fingolfin had plans for what his majority celebration would be like. Fëanor would be there to celebrate Fingolfin’s accomplishments. Father would be there, hand on Fingolfin’s shoulder as he looked at Fingolfin with the pride blazing on his face as he only looked at Fëanor. Father would smile, looking between his two eldest sons, and say, “Well done, Fingolfin, I think even Fëanor can admit you are his equal now. Don’t you agree, Fëanor?” And Fëanor would look Fingolfin over, holding his approval back, savoring it, until his mouth curled up into a slow smile that came to reach his eyes and turn them more beautiful than the glory of a Mingling, and finally, finally he would say: “Yes, he is worthy of that naming.”

But these were not only Fingolfin’s dearest dreams, but also his wildest. His heart doubted. He had too many memories of Fëanor walking away, shaking him off with a curt word, not wanting him to walk even just behind him in his shadow, tagging alone. Not wanting anything from Fingolfin.

If Fingolfin couldn’t earn the title of equal in all things, he’d have to settle at being _better_ then Fëanor in something. Just one thing would do, but it had to be something that meant something because he wanted to win. Win a proud smile from Father, the one he gave when he waxed on Fëanor’s many accomplishments, and win Fëanor’s respect and admiration in _something_ if he couldn’t have it in him as a whole. 

He would be more then the little brother forever trailing after, so easily left behind and forgotten. One day, Fëanor wouldn’t be able to leave him behind because there was something, just this one thing, Fingolfin walked ahead on with Fëanor following. Maybe then Fëanor would see Fingolfin was worthy of walking together, shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Here, I find you at last, lazing the day away in a garden!”

Fingolfin fumbled his book at the shouting voice. Fëanor came striding across the grass, a smile, a _smile_ , on his mouth for Fingolfin. Fingolfin’s belly flipped. Fëanor had sought him out? But it had forever been Fingolfin who sought, Fingolfin who longed, and Fëanor who walked away.

“Scoot your lazy bones over!” 

Fingolfin’s feet hit the grass, scrambling up, struggling to hide his eagerness as Fëanor sat next to him. He took no mind of Fëanor’s overly-loud voice. He remembered that now about his brother, though he hadn’t thought of it in years. Fëanor shouted and waved his hands about as he talked when he got excited about something, or angry, or just when he had lots of feelings inside. The palace was so quiet, so restrained and empty without Fëanor crashing life and chaos about.

Fëanor watched him for a moment. Fingolfin watched him back. Staring. Somehow he’d forgotten just how powerful the sight of Fëanor was. He was impossible to look away from. He drew the eye, caught it, held it. Who wouldn’t want to stare at Fëanor? 

Fëanor wore a simple white shirt and leggings, the embroidery at the collar and seams so fine, Fingolfin wondered if Míriel Serindë had once stitched it for their father. Fëanor had left the shirt open at the collar, and creamy skin, just the hint of collarbones, rose to the column of a strong, long neck. He should have looked like a common laborer, but there was nothing common about Fëanor.

Fëanor’s voice lowered a few octaves, sliding smooth and deep like velvet over Fingolfin’s skin (He didn’t remember his brother’s voice being so deep, so alluring). “What are you reading?”

Fingolfin smiled to himself. That _would_ be the first thing Fëanor asked. 

Fingolfin turned the book’s spine towards his brother. Fëanor’s eyebrows shot up. “Master Aldorion’s treaties on the Laws of Motion?” A grin split Fëanor’s face, and stole Fingolfin’s breath. Fëanor smiled at _him_ like that. “I knew you weren’t like the others, Fingolfin. You have a true thirst for knowledge. You long to unpick the world, down to its roots, look into the eye of reality and know it. This hunger inside,” Fëanor’s hands picked up his words, spinning the air it elegant punctuations, “You have it too, don’t you?” 

It took a moment for Fingolfin to order his words, so enraptured had he become in Fëanor’s. He didn’t know what to say. He had hunger, it burned inside him, but it wasn’t the hunger Fëanor spoke of. Fingolfin’s did not read this –rather boring—book because he thirsted for its knowledge for the sake of its knowledge. He read it because he wanted to follow the paths of Fëanor’s thoughts, to comprehend the papers his brother had published and Father had dedicated an entire wall in the library just to showcasing his favorite son’s accomplishments.

When Fingolfin didn’t answer, Fëanor carried on, impatient to hear everything. “What did you think of his last law, the controversial one on action and reaction? I have conducted some experiments of my own and found the theory holds up under scrutiny. Have you tested it yourself? Of course you have. What were your findings?”

“I haven’t read that far.” Fingolfin shifted, eyes dropping. His fingers picked at the book’s spine.

“Then I shall await your findings. You may look over my conclusions –I have the notes in one of my journals— I will lend them to you.”

Fingolfin looked up. A smile crept over his face. Fëanor wanted to talk about his work with _him,_ like an equal. “I’ll make it a priority then, and we can compare our findings.”

Fëanor waved a hand through the air. “You are welcome to examine my own, and I shall look yours over to correct any errors, but my own work is without flaws.”

How had he forgotten how arrogant Fëanor was about his work? 

Things he’d forgotten about his brother were coming back now. He remembered Fëanor was a terrible listener. Conversation with him was both the pinnacle of delight and frustration. Fëanor thought all his opinions were the right ones. Fingolfin had never found Fëanor’s reasoning in error, but Fëanor’s dismissal of an idea Fingolfin thought quite clever could sink into teeth, and worked the jaws of more than one of Father’s advisors and lords.

Talking to Fëanor was like drinking light mixed with a darkness that went down with the taste of the necessary, for how could the world be only light? The darkness was what their world lacked. But when Fëanor talked of it, there was nothing depressing in the thought, for Fëanor saw all the ways the failings could be improved. 

When Fëanor’s words washed over Fingolfin, he’d feel his awareness of the world expanding, seeing beauties and problematic patterns he’d never even thought to consider; he’d feel his heart swelling with the spark of Fëanor’s fire that _burned_ to change the world. When Fëanor spoke, Fingolfin never wanted him to stop, everything else fell away and the world aligned itself to Fëanor’s words.

Fingolfin found Fëanor studying his face. Fingolfin’s eyes danced over his brother’s face, drinking in the moment. Fëanor’s attention was all for him. 

“Did you miss me?”

Fingolfin’s brow rose. What kind of questions was that? “Don’t be ridiculous.” He dismissed the idea of _not_ missing Fëanor away with a flick of his unbound hair over his shoulder. He crossed his legs, settling his book down on his thigh. He looked up at Fëanor’s sudden silence.

All the lightness had shifted into darkened brows. Anger flared up, written all over Fëanor’s face for the world to see. How had Fingolfin forgotten this as well about his brother? (Why had Fëanor stayed away so long Fingolfin forgot the sound of his voice and the way he carried his heart in the palm of his hand?)

Fëanor had never hidden a thing about what he felt. He broadcasted it all, without a thought for shame or the advantages of holding the power of what he loved and loathed against his chest. 

The Noldor, as a culture, adhered to the ideal of self-mastery. Their worst nightmare, their greatest shame, the height of weakness in their eyes, was their hearts laid naked in the palm of their hands for all to read. Fingolfin had been surrounded by tutors, court officials, and lords’ children who were all prime example of this discipline, holding tight reigns over their innermost thoughts. 

His mother, as a Vanya, had also been taught the discipline of self-mastery from birth; it was, after all, the Valar’s teachings that had set it as the ideal. His father had never completely shed the unrestrained out-pouring of his emotions he’d learned in his youth when the Elves yet dwelt about Lake Cuiviénen. Politician though Finwë was, he kept his heart open when it revolved around his firstborn.

Fëanor had never tried to master the subtly of hidden emotions. He’d scorned the very idea. He lashed out now with all his anger clouding his face. 

“You were a transitory presence in my thoughts, nothing but stray ones that would have been better cast elsewhere.”

Fingolfin’s mouth parted, stung deep down in the core of himself. He closed his mouth with a snap. He didn’t understand where this anger had sprung from. Hadn’t Fëanor just heard him admit to missing him? What had Fingolfin done to deserve this cruelty? Nothing. He’d forgotten how vindictive Fëanor could be.

-

Fëanor hadn’t remembered Fingolfin being this vindictive as a child. Fëanor had as good as admitted to missing Fingolfin, only for Fingolfin to throw it back in his face with the idea of missing Fëanor back being ‘ridiculous.’

“Did you hear: I am getting married.”

“Yes, I heard.” Fingolfin raised a brow. The expression looked as dismissive as when he told Fëanor he hadn’t missed him.

Fëanor’s nostrils flared. “I did not _wait_.”

The brow inched higher. “Wait for what?”

Fëanor’s hand balled into a fist, skin itching to slap that look of nonchalance off Fingolfin’s face. How _dare_ Fingolfin play games with him? Biting words piled up behind his teeth, readying themselves for a losing, but Fëanor swallowed them back, though it took every ounce of his willpower. 

Fëanor had seen Fingolfin lying across the bench, his stunning mane of wild curls and waves spread out about his face, pooling in the flowers, golden light pouring over the lines of his face, thick lashes sweeping down over exquisite eyes that no longer reminded Fëanor of his father’s, and thought him beautiful. 

Fingolfin was eleven years old. _Eleven_. What kind of person thought an eleven year old the loveliest creature they’d ever laid eyes on? The kind of person the Valar had condemned as marred from birth, and a harbinger of great evil. 

No. Fëanor squashed the fear. He had done nothing wrong, _nothing_ , and he would not be shamed. 

Touching Fingolfin would not be right, but Fëanor had not touched him. Fingolfin had been the one to touch, and Fëanor had done the right thing and walked away. He’d done _nothing wrong_.

But he found he couldn’t bear the dismissal in Fingolfin’s voice. He couldn’t bear to hear Fingolfin speaking as if nothing had happened. That kiss had tormented Fëanor. He’d not even been able to touch himself without fearing Fingolfin’s face might flash behind his eyelids.

He didn’t know what he wanted from Fingolfin, not an eleven-year-old Fingolfin. Nothing could happen, it wouldn’t be right, and Fëanor always did what he thought was right. He was no false-tongued courtier putting on a genial smile while they subtly sabotaged their opponents behind their backs. Fëanor would do what he knew was right. Until Fingolfin came of age, nothing would happen, but he _needed_ Fingolfin to acknowledge what already had.

“I would wait,” Fëanor looked right into those lovely blue eyes. “I would. Ask me to wait, to not marry her, and I might be persuaded.”

Fingolfin laughed. It froze something inside Fëanor. “You’re so dramatic. As if you needed to draw out the breaking of ten-thousand hearts! You know half of Tirion fancies themselves your future wife. The other half can’t stand you, but—”

“I do not care about any of them!” Everything was going wrong, and Fëanor’s voice rose in agitation. “Give me your answer!”

Fingolfin frowned, eyes searching Fëanor’s face. Fëanor could not stop the scowl from darkening his brow. Why wouldn’t Fingolfin just admit he’d made Fëanor promised to wait for him? Why didn’t he ask him to one more time? 

“You should marry her as soon as you like if you love her. I don’t understand why you care for anyone’s disapproval about your ages, you’ve never cared before.”

“I do not care. I will marry Nerdanel tomorrow if I like.”

“That settles it then.” 

Fëanor’s chest heaved, nails digging into the sides of his thighs. “You do not care? You have nothing to say?” 

“It’s really none of my business who you marry. Why would it be?”

The fury (pain, oh gods, he didn’t know how to make it stop hurting) roared incandescent through his veins. He could feel it eating away everything else, leaving only the hostility, the need to _hurt_. He couldn’t seem to stop himself. He’d never been able to quench the fire. 

He struck Fingolfin where it would draw blood. “I do not know why I bothered to ask, it is not as if your opinion ever meant anything to me.” 

Fingolfin flushed, eyes snapping fire back. “You have a funny way of showing it! You as good as admitted you missed me a moment ago!”

Fëanor wanted to slap a hand over his mouth and run from the garden, run before more cruel words tore out, but he wanted to see Fingolfin’s lovely face that would never be his crumple. He wanted to hurt him like Fingolfin’s dismissal of him, complete disregard for words and kisses that had sunk into Fëanor’s skin and wouldn’t let him go, had hurt Fëanor. 

“What is there to miss? A snot-nosed brat who trailed after my heels? Coming back like a pathetic puppy who never learned to take the hint that I would not have noticed if he had gone missing because his place was of such insignificance in my life?”

He got what he wanted: Fingolfin’s mouth crumpling up like a discarded napkin, wetness trembling in those pretty eyes. It didn’t make it hurt any less. 

The fire doused with the first falling tear. It sizzled out under the weight of hollow revenge. Fëanor’s own wounding throbbed naked without the cover of the rage. He couldn’t bear to look at Fingolfin’s face another moment. 

He stood, face never losing its thunderous expression because it _hurt_ , and Fingolfin had been the one to wield the spear. He stormed from the garden. He didn’t look back. 

By the time he reached his rooms, reason began to assert itself over the hurt. Fingolfin was only eleven. If Fëanor waited… 

He’d done nothing wrong, but what if one day he did? What if, in the years of waiting, Fingolfin blossoming towards adulthood and growing more beautiful by the day, Fëanor went passed thinking Fingolfin beautiful and became aroused by that beauty? What if he tried to take it for himself? 

Fëanor had to stop this. These thoughts…it seemed natural to imagine Fingolfin as an Elf full-grown, but he wouldn’t be for years. Fëanor needed these thoughts to stop. He wasn’t what the Valar would accuse him of being.

He would marry Nerdanel as soon as possible. They shared a union of minds, and he called her friend. His desire to marry her was based on an intellectual attraction rather than a romantic one, but she accepted that and wanted to marry him anyway because she loved him and understood him as few ever had. That made her precious to him beyond words, and someone he must hold tight and never let go. If her presence gave him only a shadow of the pleasure and fulfillment Fëanor found in Fingolfin’s, well…even a shadow of that feeling was worth setting in gems.

Fëanor and Nerdanel married within the month. The wedding was everything a royal wedding should be despite the haste, Finwë spared no expense. Tongues waged. Nerdanel had only just reached her majority, but Fëanor still fell shy of his. Fëanor didn’t care about wagging tongues. He never had.

He left home with Nerdanel only weeks after the wedding. Fëanor decided he would pursue smith-craft as his first official mastery, and took an apprenticeship with the Vala Aulë. He didn’t return to Tirion for seven years, not until Nerdanel’s belly swelled heavy with their first child so Finwë could witness his first grandchild’s birth. He didn’t return until Fingolfin had come of age.


	6. Chapter 6

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 6  
  
The servant sent to fetch him to the entrance hall, for Fëanor had returned home at long last, was not needed. Fingolfin had already been drawn to the window like a moth to the flame. Fëanor’s loud, excited voice rang in the square below. He all but bounced into Father’s arms, before running back to help his pregnant wife from the carriage, while he shouted back at Finwë about…everything. Fëanor didn’t care who heard about his upcoming son who would the best thing to happen to the world since his own birth.   
  
Fingolfin couldn’t bring himself to go down into Fëanor’s presence. Not yet. He watched his mother and younger siblings file out, their heads of golden curls catching the light as they came in an orderly line. Fëanor didn’t spare them a glance. He never had bothered enough with Finarfin to either like or dislike him, and couldn’t stand Irimë.   
  
His wife on his arm, Fëanor grabbed Father in another hug, before sweeping into the palace as he’d swept into Tirion: like a whirlwind of flashing fire and a rainstorm that poured creation into the world.   
  
Just before the Great Doors took Fëanor from his sight, Fëanor looked up, right at Fingolfin. He didn’t smile, only looked, eyes burning into Fingolfin’s face. Fingolfin’s heartbeat jumped; he couldn’t look away.  
  
The moment the doors released Fingolfin from that gaze, he jumped back from the window. His heart pounded, hands shaking.  
  
No. He had to keep himself under control. He was no child to bare his heart and hand it into Fëanor’s untrustworthy hands to crush. He repeated the words he’d been bolstering himself with these last years: he didn’t need Fëanor’s approval.   
  
He’d stopped believing his father would ever love him as much as Fëanor, or ever look upon him with that blaze of pride. It was time he grew up and stopped chasing a dream that had never been achievable. The idea that Fëanor would ever think Fingolfin his equal was laughable. As absurd as the thought Fingolfin would ever rise above Fëanor in anything and earn his brother’s respect. (Why couldn’t Fingolfin let it go then?)  
  
*  
  
Fingolfin flipped back through the book, searching out those statistics. His finger ran down the graph. That couldn’t be right. He pulled out the terrain map on which he’d sketched in the farmers’ property lines. Something was off about these.   
  
He sighed, fingers coming up to rub his temples. As much as he thrived on his duties at Father’s side, sorting out water disputes between famers all convinced they had the right of it gave him a headache.   
  
Fingers brushed against his neck, pulling his fall of hair back to tuck about the point of his ear. Fingolfin smiled. Had Finarfin come to beg his big brother’s help with his assignments again?   
  
The touch lingered in his hair, sinking into the thick waves. Fingolfin had not inherited his mother’s gold like his siblings, but his mother’s thickness and curl of mane had passed onto him. The fingers brushed against the fine hairs on the back of his neck, sending a shiver curling down his spine.  
  
A deep voice came from behind him. “This is where I first spoke to you.”  
  
Fingolfin whirled around, the fingers slipping out of his hair as he turned. Fëanor stood behind him wearing a dazzling smile.  
  
Fingolfin swallowed. “I don’t remember.”  
  
“Hmm.” Fëanor kept the memory to himself. His gaze did not leave Fingolfin’s upturned face.  
  
Fingolfin remembered Fëanor’s eyes darting around, constantly in motion along with his leaping mind and energized body. Fingolfin remembered Fëanor’s eyes rarely came to rest on him. Fingolfin had never been worth much of Fëanor’s time.  
  
Fëanor slid into the empty seat beside him at the library table. His eyes briefly turned to jump over the titles of Fingolfin’s stacked books. He leaned forward and read Fingolfin’s work without permission, though he would have hated it if anyone had done that to him. But he didn’t linger long on discovering this current corner of the world, his gaze swept back up to Fingolfin almost as if…as if Fingolfin was more interesting than a problem unsolved.  
  
Fingolfin’s heart fluttered.   
  
Must he be so pathetic, so needy, even a scrap of Fëanor’s attention sent his eyes brightening? He couldn’t help it though. He’d thought Fëanor considered him nothing but a pathetic, unwanted puppy yapping at his heels. What of all those words Fëanor had poured out, cutting Fingolfin to the quick? Fëanor must have meant them or he wouldn’t have said them, that was the way Fëanor was.  
  
“So, you have come of age at last.”  
  
“Yes.” Fingolfin despised the way the word dropped soft and feeble from his mouth. He straightened his shoulders, and met Fëanor’s eyes levelly. He wasn’t a little boy running after Fëanor’s heels anymore.  
  
Fëanor kept watching him, and Fingolfin’s heartbeat kept pounding in his throat.  
  
Fëanor leaned closer, a half-smile on his face, eyes all for Fingolfin’s own. “Is there any special someone your heart has turned to?”  
  
Fingolfin shifted back until his back hit the chair’s. He couldn’t breathe properly with Fëanor so close. Why must Fëanor be so…magnetic?   
  
Fingolfin reached for laughter, using it to brush aside his awkwardness, confusion, and longing; he hid those away as he’d been taught. He mustn’t be that pathetic child again. “Not all of us marry before we reach our majority.”  
  
Fëanor’s smile deepened, eyes sliding down from Fingolfin’s own to land lower of Fingolfin’s face. Was he looking at his mouth? Fingolfin licked his lips self-consciously.   
  
“So there is no one?”  
  
Fingolfin didn’t answer. He had no special interest in taking a wife. He’d already decided he would let Father pick out someone for him with appropriate political connections and a temperament Father deemed complementary to his own when the time came.   
  
Fingolfin wouldn’t tell Fëanor any of this. Fëanor wouldn’t approve of a political marriage.   
  
When Fingolfin didn’t answer, Fëanor closed the distance between them to press a kiss into Fingolfin’s cheek. The intimacy of the gesture was bizarre. Fëanor had never bestowed a kiss on him before, never touched him outside a hand held grudgingly.  
  
Fingolfin held perfectly still. Every time he breathed in, he inhaled Fëanor’s scent.   
  
Fëanor’s mouth slid up the line of Fingolfin’s cheekbone to hover over his ear. When he spoke, the shape of his lips brushed the delicate skin of Fingolfin’s ear. Fingolfin shivered, heat coiling low in his belly.   
  
Didn’t Fëanor realize how overpowering his presence was? Fingolfin would dare anyone not to be aroused by Fëanor’s close proximity. His ears had been assaulted by the tail-ends of some truly wild fantasies other members of court had shared in less then deceit settings, but lust for Prince Fëanor was as common as pride in the hearts of the Noldor.   
  
“Good.”   
  
It took Fingolfin an embarrassingly long time to connect Fëanor’s words with their previous line of conversation. Fingolfin’s nostrils flared. How dare Fëanor mock him like this? How dare he rub it in that Fingolfin hadn’t attracted a wife yet in some twisted form of shoving it in Fingolfin’s face that Fëanor was somehow better in this as in all things?   
  
Fingolfin opened his mouth, sarcastic retort sitting on the tip of his tongue, when Fëanor spoke again. “I missed you.”   
  
This mockery could not be born. Fëanor _missed_ him? Fingolfin had noticed by the visits that hadn’t come in years, and all the letters that didn’t fill his letter box. He’d noticed when Fëanor hadn’t even bothered to show up for Fingolfin’s Coming of Age celebrations. Yes, he’d noticed how much Fëanor had missed him in how utterly forgettable Fingolfin was to him. Not one word. Not one line. Oh, he meant a _great_ deal to his brother.  
  
Fëanor lips found his cheek again. The shape of that mouth, soft yet as precisely molded as a marble statue’s, the heat of it lingering on his skin. The heady smell of Fëanor –the scent of a forge, of fire and metal, the wash of bathing scents, and the dark musk beneath—curled want through every pore of Fingolfin’s body.   
  
Fingolfin jerked his face away. This was the last straw. To play with Fingolfin’s body in this way, stirring desire in him that had no business being there, it was unacceptable. Fëanor sought to humiliate him. Fingolfin would not allow himself to be.   
  
Fingolfin shoved his chair back, standing to give himself the power of height over Fëanor. “Well you were the only one.”   
  
The hurt shone as bright and piercing as a star upon Fëanor’s face, before the kindled anger overrode it. Fingolfin’s fingers came up, as if to snatch back the words. He’d not thought…not believed, ever for a moment, that Fëanor had meant his words.  
  
“Fëanor, I—”  
  
Fëanor shot out of his chair. “Grown up, have you? No longer the pathetic puppy waiting on the doorstep for my return? Well, you are welcome to the life of mediocrity you have no doubt carved out for yourself. I will be sure not to waste another thought on you.”  
  
Fëanor swept out of the library, the doors banging behind him, leaving Fingolfin with the hot backlash of a wind rushing off a firestorm.  
  
*  
  
Fëanor had commandeered a forge for himself in the artisan district. It hadn’t taken long for Fingolfin to find it; everyone in the district knew where Prince Fëanor worked.   
  
Fingolfin smoothed out invisible creases in his tunic, making sure to lift his head high, and pushed open the forge’s door. He didn’t care what Fëanor thought of him. He _didn’t_.  
  
The fire pit lay cold, and the ashes gray. The pale gold light of early morn followed Fingolfin into the empty forge with the door’s opening. It washed the forge in sheets of light, throwing back the shadows. Everyone he’d stopped to ask directions of affirmed Fëanor had come to his forge today.  
  
A grinding sound Fingolfin could not identity started up from the back of the seemingly empty forge. Fingolfin followed it. He found a workroom connected to the back of the forge, and Fëanor within.  
  
Fëanor stood over a filled washtub, one hand plunged into the water, the other holding some sort of contraption. He’d stripped down to his leggings, chest and arms bare, hair pulled back in a knot. A red handkerchief, so common among the artisan class, held any stay strands from falling into his eyes as he worked.   
  
Fëanor pulled the hand he’d submerged free of the water and settled it on the handle of the contraption he held steady. The grinding sound started up again as he turned the handle at a steady pace. His eyes were half closed, unfocused, as if he looked upon something beyond the sight of eye.   
  
His face was a study in concentration. Something beautiful took shape under Fëanor’s hands; it was written in the way his brows drew close, mouth hung slightly parted, a glimmer of teeth beyond. It was in the smooth ripple of his muscles as he worked the handle of the long, needle-like contraption.   
  
Fingolfin could not look away, could hardly breath. Heat slithered low in his belly, treacherous, with a mind of its own. He felt himself hardening, and couldn’t blame the inappropriate reaction on anything Fëanor had done to incite it this time. Fingolfin struggled against his body, he would not, _would not_ , allow this.   
  
Fëanor paused in his work after only a few turns, and his hand went back into the water. Clamps were released, and when Fëanor’s brought his hand up this time he held a single emerald within. The stone was the size of a baby’s fist, and its faces had already been cut to perfection.   
  
Fëanor held it up to the beam of light a circle in the room’s ceiling funneled in. The light caught in the gem as Fëanor turned it this way and that, and Fingolfin sucked in a breath. He’d never seen anything like it. It seemed, when the light hit the emerald a certain way, flowers bloomed inside it, as if they had always been caught inside the stone and by Fëanor’s hands were given life.   
  
“It is a new technique I am experimenting with.” Fëanor spared Fingolfin no more than a glance as he walked back to the washtub and started clamping the gem back onto the block securing it in place under the water.  
  
Fingolfin took the not outright dismal as leave to step fully within Fëanor’s workroom. “I have never seen one of these tools before,” he gestured at the needle-like contraption Fëanor had picked up again.   
  
“That is because I invented it.” Fëanor slipped the point of the device into the water, searching out the gem beneath. “It is a drill, much akin to the ones the stonemasons employ.”  
  
“Are not jewel saws the usual way of cutting a stone?” Fingolfin drew close enough to stand opposite Fëanor at the washtub, and peered into the water. His skin tingled with hyperawareness of how close this brought him to Fëanor.  
  
“The usual, yes. I did not want the usual results.”   
  
It was hard to see anything with the way the water distorted the image. Fëanor worked on instinct and touch alone as he guided the drill’s delicate tip into the hole he’d already drilled in the emerald’s back.   
  
Fingolfin watched in silence, fascinated. Fëanor found the angle he wanted, and began the precise process of making a cut with the drill in the heart of the emerald so delicate and miniscule the naked eye could only just make it out.   
  
“The water?”   
  
“The drilling creates friction.”  
  
“Of course.” Fingolfin flushed at the ignorant question, though Fëanor’s voice had not held even a hint of the impatient note it usually carried at questions asking what he thought obvious. Anyone who knew anything would realize the drilling motion created heat which could damage the jewel, and the water was to cool the jewel down, obviously.  
  
Fëanor drew the emerald out of the water after the most recent cut. “Here,” his hand captured Fingolfin’s arm, pulling him toward the shaft of pure light.   
  
Fingolfin’s heart leapt into his throat even as his skin purred where Fëanor touched him. He looked from the place Fëanor latched onto him up to his brother’s face. Fëanor’s eyes were bright, an excited smile taking his mouth as he urged Fingolfin forward.  
  
“Hold out your hand, just here, in the light.” Fingolfin did as he was told, mouth dry.   
  
Fëanor leaned close, the heat of his naked chest close enough Fingolfin could feel it soaking through his tunic and into his skin. Fingolfin could not think properly. His head swam dizzy, overwhelmed.   
  
Unacceptable. He couldn’t allow this lust to so utterly defeat him.   
  
Fëanor placed the gem into the palm of Fingolfin’s hand, fingers brushing Fingolfin’s skin and coming to rest on the delicate skin of Fingolfin’s wrist to curl his fingers about Fingolfin’s wrist and direct his hand this way and that in the light.  
  
The emerald was breathtaking. Fingolfn hardly noticed it. Fëanor hovered at his side, so close his exhales tickled Fingolfin’s ear, sending loose strands of hair fluttering. The heat of that hard body pressed so close, the smell of him, oh the smell! Fingolfin’s lashes fluttered, body yearning to lean back, just that last inch to bring their bodies flush. If he turned his neck, his mouth would ride the distance of a breath from Fëanor’s.  
  
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Fëanor breathed in his ear.  
  
Fingolfin took in a shaky breath. “Yes.” He cleared his throat and forced himself to put distance between their bodies. He needed to get himself back under control.   
  
This was the way Fëanor had always been, eclipsing everything and everyone about him like Laurelin eclipsed the stars in the sky. Fingolfin had followed after him, orbiting like a planet about its sun. But he wasn’t a child anymore to be enraptured by his brother so utterly. Fëanor may have been taken by the thrill of showing off his latest work, but Fëanor had shown him quite clearly –repeatedly—exactly how much Fingolfin meant to him: nothing. And yet here Fingolfin was again to drink of Fëanor’s fire when a messenger, or even a letter from Father, would have done just as well.  
  
Fingolfin’s aroused state made everything a hundred times worse, the power tipped that much further in Fëanor’s favor. If Fëanor discovered it, it would be the work of a touch, a turned wrist, a single look, to have Fingolfin under his control. Oh the humiliation!  
  
No, Fëanor could never discover what just these brushes of skin were doing to Fingolfin. Fingolfin already scrambled after scraps of Fëanor, how much worse it would be if Fëanor could wield the power of lust over him as well.  
  
“Thank you for showing me.” Fingolfin dropped the gem back into Fëanor’s hand now hanging empty of Fingolfin’s wrist.  
  
Fëanor’s eyes lowered to the jewel. He turned it between his fingers, frowning. His voice was uncommonly quiet when he spoke. “What are you doing here, Fingolfin?”  
  
“Father sent me to inquire if you and Nerdanel were planning to attend Finarfin’s Begetting Day celebration. My mother is planning something of an elaborate nature to welcome in his eleventh year. You received an official invitation,” –which had never been returned one way or the other— “But Father hoped for a definite yes, as you can imagine.”  
  
Fëanor’s gaze rose during the carefully polite and carefully detached speech. He searched Fingolfin’s face. “There is a rumor flying lose about you.”  
  
Fingolfin raise a brow. “I did not take you for one to deal in rumors.”  
  
“I do not, but Nerdanel told me. She said you have been paying your attentions to a lady.”  
  
Fingolfin did not drop his eyes though Fëanor’s burned into his. He swallowed down the flipping in his belly that Fëanor had bothered to listen to anything concerning him, that he’d cared to deem it worth remembering.   
  
“It is true. I have completed the first steps of the courting dance with Lady Aairë.”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth pulled down, jaw clenching. “The daughter of the Lord of the Pillar? I have heard nothing worth remembering about her.”  
  
Fingolfin folded his hands behind his back, face scrambling to maintain its control. He didn’t know Aairë well, or deem Fëanor’s opinion far off, but why must Fëanor shower criticism on _everything_ to do with Fingolfin?   
  
“Father thought her a woman of compatible traits. Her father is an influential member of the Council of Lords, and her family owns the largest diamond and copper mines—”  
  
“You are marrying her because of _politics_?” Fëanor’s lip curled.  
  
Fingolfin’s eyes snapped. “Who I marry and why is no business of yours. Now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to.” His lifted his shoulder against Fëanor, boots striking the stone slabs as he made for the workroom’s door.  
  
Hands grabbed him by the shoulders, and spun him around. Fingolfin took a stumbling step back before regaining his solid stance.   
  
Fëanor’s eyes blazed in his face, mouth a snarl. “It is my business if I say it is!”  
  
Fury radiated out of Fëanor’s every pore. He had no control. Fingolfin tried to force scorn into the thought, but all he felt, looking at Fëanor’s face bleeding his emotions out like a heady perfume, eyes flashing more brilliant then diamonds, was admiration. Fëanor didn’t waste a thought on what anyone thought of him.  
  
Fingolfin’s head came up to meet the swooping tide of fury. “I’ll thank you not to order me about like your _dog_. I make my own choices now.”  
  
Fëanor shoved him. Fingolfin had not expected the violence, and fell back a step, back coming into contact with the wall. Fëanor followed after him, hands gripping, not Fingolfin’s shoulders, but his hips.   
  
“I will not let you _waste_ yourself on some common-placed woman any lord with a bit of charm and a dash of handsomeness could have caught the hand of! I will not let you fall into this mundanely! Is this all you want out of your life? The fake smiles of a politician worn with the familiarity of a master’s craft upon your mouth, a marriage lacking even the foundations of respect? Is this who you would become?”   
  
Fëanor had grown unbearable. How dare he try to tell Fingolfin who he could and could not marry? How dare he throw contempt on everything Fingolfin was?   
  
Fingolfin’s hands came up to dig grooves into Fëanor’s naked shoulders, feeling the heat of that skin and the strength riding under it. He wanted to run his hands down the smooth curves of Fëanor’s muscles, gathering all the silkiness of that skin against his, and feel the hardness of Fëanor’s nipples under his palms, the rippling plane of his belly, but he would not ruled by _lust_.   
  
He closed some of those last few inches between them and hissed into the place Fëanor’s panting breaths hit the air: “You do not know the first thing about me. You never did, because you never cared to learn.”  
  
Fëanor’s eyed flashed, hands tightened about Fingolfin’s hips into bruising. Fingolfin’s breaths pulled heavy and swift into his lungs, skin hot, and lust burning him up inside.   
  
“It is you who never understood me.”  
  
Fingolfin laughed, the sound anything but merry. He not understand Fëanor who’d he’d _obsessed_ over since childhood? There were parts of Fëanor Fingolfin had overlooked, forgiving the many flaws, blinded into seeing only perfection. But it was a long time since he’d thought Fëanor perfect. No, it was Fëanor who never cared to listen, never cared to look, never cared to stop walking away long enough to look back into Fingolfin’s yearning face and understand the first thing about his little brother.  
  
Fingolfin thrust his hands into Fëanor’s shoulders until he broke his brother’s hold. “Regretting I do not gather your words like the truth of the world so you can lead me wherever you chose anymore?” Fingolfin’s perfect mask of control had long shattered. “Wishing you had dropped a few crumbs to keep the dog at your heels, are you? Too late now.”   
  
Fëanor grabbed Fingolfin’s wrist as Fingolfin dismissed Fëanor with his back and made for the door again. Fëanor yanked Fingolfin back, crashing Fingolfin’s shoulder into his chest. “ _Disappointed_ I thought I saw something that was never there in a boy I wasted too many hours on.”   
  
Fingolfin’s teeth clenched so hard they could have cracked stones. He welcomed the pain to lash against the pain of those words, of Fëanor’s rejection of him –yet again.   
  
“So go!” Fëanor threw Fingolfin from him. The force of the push would have held the dramatic flair Fëanor wanted if Fingolfin were not built as solidly as him. “Go marry your average wife, and have your average children, and live your average life! As you say, it is no concern of mine.”  
  
Fingolfin spun away, the shouted words ringing in his ears. It was him banging the door shut behind him this time.   
  
His hand came up to press over his heart. It felt like he’d lost something precious, but that was wrong, he’d never had anything to begin with. Just the taste of dust in his mouth as Fëanor walked away.  
  
His hand curled into a fist. He didn’t look back as _he_ walked away from Fëanor. His pride flared high and blinding in his breast like a pillar of white flame. He would not come crawling to his brother again, Fëanor could be sure of that.


	7. Chapter 7

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 7  
  
“Are you coming to see your brother’s speech?” Fingolfin looked up from his work to see his father standing in the doorway, hand still wrapped about the door’s handle.  
  
“I thought I might. Are people gathering already?”  
  
“Just the common folk as yet, the court will sweep out at the last moment.”   
  
They shared a knowing smile. No doubt some lord had arranged for a section of the Great Square to be quartered off for the nobles. Fingolfin would not be surprised to find rows of chairs dragged out for the occasion.  
  
“What does Fëanor intend to speak about? He refuses to give a definite answer to anyone –so I have heard.”   
  
Fingolfin had not asked Fëanor himself. Fëanor had nothing but inhospitable looks to send his way, or footsteps pivoting away when Fingolfin came into the room on the few occasions Fëanor tore himself away from forge-work and allowed his presence to grace the palace halls. Fëanor swung between dismissive or hostel, depending on his mood for the day.   
  
‘I missed you,’ Fëanor had said, but whatever sliver of him that had missed the boy tagging after him, trailing worship, had been extinguished. It was as Fingolfin had suspected: he had never meant much to Fëanor if he could be so easily discarded from his heart.  
  
“No, he has not shared it with me either.”  
  
Fingolfin’s eyebrows rose. “And you are letting him speak in the Great Square?”   
  
The Great Square served as the venue chosen if one did not wish their words to be confined to the lords’ debating halls and council chambers. It came with the weight and responsibility of speaking directly to the people. A delicate venture a politician must pick his words carefully for.   
  
Fëanor was a peerless orator; he was not, however, a politician. He simply didn’t care enough about the delicate dances. He certainly didn’t care to choose his words with subtly in mind.  
  
Finwë sent Fingolfin a chiding glance. “Fëanor is the crown prince of the Noldor. He may address our people as his heart leads him. In truth, I am pleased he has finally developed some interest in the rule of the Noldor and might yet take up some duties of governance.”  
  
Fingolfin would believe that when he saw it. He closed the ledger he’d been working on and stood. “I will accompany you. There is nothing here that cannot wait.”  
  
Finwë smiled. “I am sure your brother will be pleased to receive your support.”  
  
Fingolfin doubted that, but nodded at his father as they took to the corridor. He didn’t know if his father was willfully blind of Fëanor’s disinterest in Indis and her children, or eternally optimistic.  
  
When they stepped out into the Great Square, Fingolfin found his predictions to be true. The nobles had reserved themselves a section within easy view of the speaker who would stand upon the high step of the palace’s doorstep.   
  
Fëanor already stood upon the steps, pacing with the restless energy of his nature. Nerdanel stood beside him, arms full of their newborn son. Her stillness and watchful eyes cast into sharp shadow by her husband’s fiery spirit. They were like Laurelin and Telperion, of one function in many ways, yet complete opposites in others.  
  
Fëanor’s heels snapped against the stones as he spun his last turn. His face lit up when he saw Finwë had come.   
  
“Father!” He embraced his father, right there on the palace steps for all to see, as they could hear his heart in his voice and see his every swing of mood in his face.  
  
Fingolfin, Fëanor ignored as if he did not exist. If Fingolfin’s heart fell another inch at the rejection, his face did not show it. He wore the noblest countenance he could find within himself as he left the steps (he would not be asked to stand at Fëanor’s side), and made his way to his siblings and mother.   
  
They’d taken up a place in the nobles’ section. He hadn’t expected to find his mother anywhere else. For those who knew how to see under his mother’s perfected court-face, the strain of her polite smile would be revealed in the muscles about her eyes. She’d come because it was expected of her to present the united face of the royal family to their people, but she could have lived her whole live without listening to another word out of Fëanor’s mouth.   
  
Fingolfin came to stand between Irimë and Finarfin. Finarfin looked up at him with a smile, slipping his hand through Fingolfin’s. Fingolfin squeezed his little brother’s hand.   
  
“What’s Brother going to talk about?”  
  
“Don’t call him that.” Irimë’s mouth set in a pinched line as she turned narrowed eyes up at Fëanor. “He’s our _half-brother_.”  
  
Fingolfin ignored the comment. “Father did not know.”  
  
“Brother likes surprises.”   
  
Fingolfin’s mouth twitched at the way Finarfin ignored Irimë’s criticism as he always did, the serene expression never buckling from his face.  
  
“How would you know what Fëanor likes?” Irimë crossed her arms over her chest. “He’s never spoken one word to you, as if you _didn’t exist_. We’re not worth a scrap of his precious time.”  
  
Finarfin kept on smiling, not batting an eye. “Brother helps me find books in the library sometimes. And we shared a basket of blueberries in the kitchens once. He knows I exist.”  
  
Irimë snorted, and opened her mouth to retort, but Fingolfin cut in, “Shh, Fëanor is starting.” Irimë’s snide words aimed at Fëanor were drowned out in Fingolfin’s mind as Fëanor took over domination of it as he always did.   
  
Fëanor looked a prince today. He wore a tunic of deep red with silver embroidery. It was the Broideress’ work, peerless. Fingolfin had seen it on Father before Father entrusted the Broideress’ finest work to Fëanor when he came of age. The tunic was years out of fashion, but with the way Fëanor wore it, the court would be seeing a revival of that old fashion after today.   
  
Fëanor worn the heir’s circlet, and had strung diamonds and rubies through his mass of rich black hair. But as Fëanor began to speak and his hands picked up his words in increasingly passionate gesticulations, the thick bracelets –almost vambraces with their width and snug fit against his skin, stretching from wrist to mid-forearm—were the adornment that caught the most attention. There workmanship was exquisite. Fingolfin would not be surprised to learn their crafter was the very Elf who now flashed their beauty.  
  
What Fëanor spoke of with such eloquence was…well it was very Fëanor. Fingolfin didn’t know what his father had been thinking letting Fëanor speak before the crowds like this, but Father regretted it now if the stiffness of his face was any indication.   
  
Fingolfin would worry over the consequences of Fëanor’s words later, for now he could do nothing but soak their curling heat up, along with the one who dropped them. Fëanor’s cheeks were high with color, eyes glittering brilliance, as words that sank into bones and trembled in hearts flowed from his mouth like the first sparks of a bonfire, like the strike of lightning lighting the world on fire.   
  
Fingolfin’s sex swelled. He couldn’t convince himself it was the excitement of the moment, the flame of Fëanor’s words. It had everything to do with the mouth saying them. But he doubted a single inhabitant of the Great Square was unaffected. Fëanor was impossible to look away from.  
  
Fingolfin would awaken from dreams of this moment in the days to come, as he had awoken hard and empty from dreams of a naked chest, star-bright eyes snapping fire, a lush mouth inches from his own aching one, and leggings molded to a perfectly shaped buttocks his mouth went dry and his belly swooped to put his hands on. He had awoken from many dreams of that day in the forge, but he did not surrender to the lust.  
  
Only once, only once had he given into sinful temptation.  
  
He’d stumbled upon the sketchbook in the library. It lay in a pool of golden light by the window, its leather cover gathering the light in its smooth skin. Fingolfin did not think much of picking it up and flipping through in search of discovering its owner’s identity. Returning it would be the courteous thing to do.   
  
Fingolfin’s fingers froze. A sketch of Fëanor stared back at him, a sultry, smirking look on his mouth, in his eyes. Fëanor had been sketched without a stitch of clothing. He sprawled, aroused, on a couch, hair sleek as an oater’s pelt tumbling about his shoulders.   
  
The artist had captured Fëanor’s face with life-like skill, and the body was equally impressive work, though inaccurate. Fingolfin knew what Fëanor’s chest looked like under his clothes. The artist had given Fëanor the kind of heavily muscled torso and arms Fingolfin expected of Aulë or Tulkas. Fëanor did not lack muscular, but Elves, even Elven-smiths, did not possesses bulk.  
  
Inaccurate as the sketch was, Fingolfin hardened, eyes unable to tear away from the curl of Fëanor’s mouth, the sweep of lashes beckoning Fingolfin to him, and the long lines of the body, one knee propped up to present itself shamelessly.   
  
Fingolfin’s fingers had a mind of their own, and turned the page. Another sketch of the crown prince revealed itself. Fëanor looked back over his shoulder at the viewer, the length of his fully-naked body on display.   
  
Fingolfin couldn’t say how much time slipped by while the sketchbook held him enraptured. He only became aware of himself again when he reached a blank page, the sketches running dry. His hand had drifted down at some point to touch himself through the fabric of his clothing.  
  
He snatched his hand away, shooting glances around, the spike of blood pounding in his head only subsiding when he found himself alone. His breath left him in a gush, and he got the sketchbook out of his hands and put distance between it and himself as quickly as possible. What would he have said if someone had discovered him fondling himself in the palace library to pictures of his naked half-brother?   
  
Fingolfin put a valiant effort into continuing his business as normal, but flashes of the sketches assaulted him, mixed in with memories of Fëanor’s heat riding inches from his own skin, his scent around him, slinking inside him. Fingolfin couldn’t get Fëanor out of his head.   
  
He shut himself up in his study and gave in. He brought himself to climax with tantalizing images of closing that last boundary between Fëanor’s mouth and his, and taking Fëanor’s lips in a kiss. Fëanor’s hands would tighten about his hips, that chest that had tormented him through a hundred dreams pressing Fingolfin into the forge’s wall with its weight, Fëanor’s thigh slotting between his and driving Fingolfin mad. And Fëanor’s eyes, his eyes burning, his eyes capturing Fingolfin’s, his eyes never looking away, his eyes all for Fingolfin, only Fingolfin.   
  
He sat, panting, body shaking from the after-tremors, and hand coated with his release. He stared down at the mess he’d made as a flush burned his cheekbones. Not in shame, not in embarrassment, no virgin’s blushes these. These were the blushes of anger; anger at himself, at the weakness the seed upon his hand signified. He was better than this. He was stronger. Fëanor may have marched himself over every inch of Fingolfin until Fingolfin could not breathe without remembering the scent of his brother’s body against his, but Fingolfin would not be ruled by base lusts. He would not.   
  
*  
  
“…When a crime is committed, the witnesses are called forward to trial and the lords judge accordingly. The sentences vary depending on the crime – thief or dishonest dealing is met with a payment of thrice that taken, a gambler unable to pay their debts must work off the sum—but a crime of a nature beyond reparations is met with a Shaming. It is then the neighbors of the Shamed who execute a Shaming by turning their backs upon the Shamed for the length of the sentence. ”  
  
Heads nodded along, eyes riveted and mouths parted in anticipated though all Fëanor had done as yet was reiterate the Noldor’s present justice system. “Shame is a powerful tool: we have all felt its hold on our necks restraining us from dishonest acts. But shame dealt out indiscriminately is a corrosion of our society, and fetters our ability to evolve. For there can be no true freedom without the foundational freedom of law in the dealing out of justice. The Shaming, which began as a worthy method of ensuring a lawful society, has been perverted! The Noldor have fallen into a nation of judging eyes. We have digressed from a society which encouraged neighbors to hold each other accountable, built upon the foundation of trust and integrity, into one where neighbors seek out the petty faults in each other, ever on the lookout for their neighbor’s flaws. Shame has become a loadstone about our neck, a stumbling block on our path!”   
  
Fëanor threw his hand out. “Is this the Noldor’s future? A life of continuous anxiety, to be judged for the smallest failing and found wanting? Will we crawl on our bellies under the weight of shame? No! The Shaming must return to its first purpose: the punishment of law breakers. And shame must be clipped back into its proper course: judging eyes plucked out, gossiping tongues struck dumb!”  
  
Fëanor raised his fist and gathered the hearts of the crowd into the clench of his knuckles. “We are the Noldor, and we are capable of more than this. We _are_ more than this! We are greatness waiting to be grasped, we are infinity waiting to be explored, we are daring feet conquering the uncharted mountains’ slopes!”  
  
The crowd cheered, fists smacking the air with his, eyes picking up the fire in his chest, flying from his mouth.  
  
Fëanor held up a hand and they went instantly silent, tilting forward on the balls of their feet to catch every word from his mouth. “So now the question arises: what laws are worthy of a Shaming if broken? The Valar laid down many laws when the Noldor arrived fresh from the Outerlands, and we adopted them all indiscriminately. But we have found some these of these laws stifling and unworthy of our natures.” He paused, letting the crowd breath, their minds grasp and churn.   
  
“Prince Fëanor!” A voice shouted from the crowd. “Are you saying we should reject the Valar’s teachings?”  
  
“In some matters, yes, we must. When we came to these shores, we did not know ourselves as we now do, and we accepted laws which we had no voice in the making of. We accepted the Valar as the high-judges of our judicial system, being unconfident in our own wisdom set next to theirs. But the time has passed for the Valar to be the ultimate judges of our internal matters. We must look back at the judgments passed down by the Valar, and ascertain if they lead our society in the direction we—”  
  
Fëanor startled at his father’s hand falling upon his shoulder, cutting him off mid-sentence. He turned with a frown to see his father had stepped to his side with a smile for the gathered crowd. He did not look at Fëanor.   
  
“My son, Prince Fëanor, has come home to us at long last!”   
  
Scattered applause met this statement, along with murmuring. A few voices were bold enough to cry out for Fëanor to speak again, others began whispering against his words in tight circles, shooting narrowed-eyed glances at their prince who’d dared to speak out against the Valar in any fashion.   
  
Fëanor did not see his own words as dissention against the Valar, just common sense. The Valar’s laws had outlived their usefulness. The Noldor were a nation long come into its noon-tide, they were fully capable of running their own justice system without interference. If the Noldor were to reach the height of their potential, they must have true freedom, and that required the rule of a law and justice they could embrace as their own, styled specifically for their society.   
  
His propositions seemed only the natural first step to true societal change. The idea that others did not want to change their society was not thought he wasted time brooding on. Only the blind would be content with a world grown stagnant.  
  
“Prince Fëanor has brought many important matters into the light. The Council of your Lords will continue to discuss these matters. I thank you for your attendance, that will be all.” Finwë’s hand on Fëanor’s arm tried to steer him back into the palace, but Fëanor would not be steered.   
  
He yanked his arm away, and stalked to his wife. He had said nothing he would not say again.   
  
Nerdanel greeted him with a steady eye and nod. She had come to support him even though she did not agree with all his words. They were a partnership in all things.  
  
He cupped her shoulder, brushing a lock of her red hair away.   
  
“You spoke well.” He smiled at the modest complement, for her it was as good as gold. “The nobles’ faces were interesting to watch.”   
  
He threw back his head and laughed, unrestrained, drawing eyes. “A memory worth savoring, hmm?”  
  
She slanted him a crooked smile. “For some time.” The smile tugged away again. “You have made enemies this day. The nobles will not be pleased you took this matter public without consulting them, and others will take your words as criticism of the Valar, as they are.”  
  
Fëanor waved a dismissive hand. “Let them hate.”   
  
His son yawned, silver eyes blinking open from his nap. Fëanor bent over him to be his son’s first sight into the awaking world. “And how did you enjoy your father’s speech, little fox?”   
  
Nerdanel surrendered Maedhros into Fëanor’s hungry arms. Fëanor tickled his son under the baby’s chin. Maedhros gurgled, little fists waving. Fëanor kissed his son’s nose.   
  
“You loved it did you not?” Maedhros smiled his toothless smile, grabbing hold of his father’s nose and holding on with sure fingers.  
  
Fëanor laughed. “Do you see that, Nerdanel? He is a clever one!”   
  
Nerdanel shook her head at their antics, smiling softly. Fëanor cradled Maedhros’ delicate skull, the copper curls slipping through his fingers like silk, and brought the baby up to his shoulder. Wide eyes looked out at the world from the new height.   
  
Fëanor turned his head and kissed his son’s cheek. “Do you like it up here, looking down on those dull-witted nobles?”  
  
“Fëanor.” Fëanor gave Nerdanel an innocent smile. She rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”  
  
“Fëanor, Finwë has asked for a word.” Fëanor turned to find Master Rúmil taking the palace steps up to him.   
  
His eyes slid passed Master Rúmil to find his father speaking to a cluster of lords. His jaw tightened.  
  
“Then let him come have one.” Fëanor turned his back. His fingers ran through Maedhros’ curls, the sweet scent of his son lingering on his skin.  
  
“Fëanor,” Master Rúmil sighed. “Will you not try to act your age? You chose to give a controversial speech before the people, now you must deal with the consequences.”  
  
Fëanor snapped a glare down the line of his shoulder at Rúmil. “I did not take you for one who clung to the out-grown.”  
  
“You made some good points,” Rúmil inclined his head. “But this was not the proper forum for them.”  
  
“It was the ideal forum. Now my words cannot be brushed aside.”  
  
Rúmil raised a brow. “Very well. If that’s what you want, then you must face the backlash for words not easily forgotten or forgiven.”   
  
Fëanor’s face hardened.   
  
“Fëanor,” Rúmil’s voice dropped low, for Fëanor and Nerdanel’s ears alone. “You are not a child anymore. What indulgence you were given as that ‘poor boy who lost his mother’ is long spent. What favor you gained on the indulgence of being Finwë’s son will come to a halt now as well. Finwë would not have spoken without a thought to the consequences, to the delicate nature of the court’s balance—”  
  
“I do not need or want to be _indulged_.”  
  
Rúmil looked at Fëanor in silence a moment, before saying, “Well you have been. And you are about to discover exactly how much.”  
  
Fëanor’s nostrils flared. “By you as well? Were you just pretending to respect me, even as a child, because of _pity_ for that ‘poor boy?’”  
  
“I am not in the habit of indulging my students. Nor did I pity you. No more then I pitied any of the children I watched orphaned during the Great Journey. No more then I pitied the parents who had to bury what was left of their children. Such suffering deserves compassion, not pity.”  
  
Fëanor held Rúmil’s eyes. The master’s face picked up shadows in a golden land. Rúmil had never spoken of the Outerlands before, though Fëanor had asked as a child to hear more than just the sanctioned stories and accounts found in published works. It was like the Noldor had tried to blot out the grief and terror in their pasts by sealing it up in a taboo.  
  
“I do not regret my words.”  
  
“I did not say you should regret them, only that you must face what they reap.” Rúmil turned away, calling back over his shoulder, “Go to your father, Fëanor. He loves you.”  
  
Fëanor’s eyes met Nerdanel’s as his hand rubbed the length of his son’s back. She raised an eyebrow, awaiting his decision.   
  
His lips quirked. “Does this mean I have to give my little fox back?”  
  
Her mouth curved. “You’re going to shout.”  
  
“I might not. It could be an entirely civil conversation.”  
  
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”  
  
Fëanor laughed, easing Maedhros back to cover his face in kisses and earn happy gurgles before handing the baby over. When his son was in his arms, he discovered hitherto untapped wells of tolerance with the world. With his son in his arms, he walked in beauty, for his son made the world a more beautiful place by existing within it.  
  
His contentment with the world lasted as he made his way to his father’s cluster of lords. He took no heed of the disgruntled looks aimed his way, turning his head only to meet the assessing gazes of those whose eyes met his and saw a kindred spirit dwelling within. With these he shared a nod, acknowledging the eyes that looked out into the world and saw it in all its flawed beauty.   
  
The contentment shattered as he drew close to his father and caught the tail end of his words. “…don’t worry, I will handle him. Fëanor will—”  
  
“You are welcome to _try_.”   
  
His father’s head snapped about at Fëanor’s growled words. “Fëanor…” Fëanor spun on his heel, shouldering back through the crowd towards the palace steps. “Fëanor, wait!”  
  
Fëanor didn’t turn at the words. ‘Handle’ him like Indis’ poisonous words had persuaded Finwë he needed to handle his ‘out of control’ son? Handle him like he was a dumb beast in want of a master’s tight reigns?  
  
Fëanor came up the palace steps. Nerdanel made a move towards him, face folded in concern for the distress Fëanor did not hide, but Fëanor waved her away. He did not want to be around his son when his chest felt constricted with the pressure of an explosion howling to get out.  
  
He cleared the first corner of the entrance hall, grasping for distance, for room to breathe. His father, who he loved so much his heart would not beat without him, would handle him. His father would corral him back into the ‘proper’ line of blindness. His father would suppress him, snap shackles about his wrists at the behest of some lords whose opinion seemed to matter more to Finwë then Fëanor’s freedom. His own father would do this.   
  
Fëanor turned into a room, it didn’t matter which, all the world was dark, and slammed the door shut behind him. He stood, head pressed back against the wood of the door, trying to draw breath. His ribs caged him, his skin restrained him, his body was a limitation to the burning, burning, burning of his spirit.  
  
The room contained many glass trinkets arranged on glass tables and encased within glass cabinets. Fëanor picked one up, hand fisting about it. He took a moment to inspect its quality, unable to willfully destroy another craftsman’s masterpieces even in this state of burning.   
  
He started laughing, the sound tearing wild and scorching from his throat. His fist tightened about the figurine of the glass lady. He’d made these, long ago, with a child’s unskilled hands. These were some of his first pieces.   
  
He drew back his fist and hulled the figurine at the wall. It shattered, and the pieces tinkled to the floor with the sound of release, of control. He picked up the next and the next, dashing them on the floor, against the walls, obliterating them. He found the sound of their destruction all the sweeter with the knowledge that his foolish younger self had once presented each and every one of these to his father, never quite convinced this latest creation would earn that proud smile, that loving hand on his shoulder, for by the time Fëanor had taken up craftsmanship his father had already started replacing him with new children because Fëanor wasn’t good enough, was marred and a seed of evil, was ‘out of control’ and needed ‘handling.’  
  
“Fëanor, stop.”   
  
Fëanor picked up the next mediocre glass work, and launched it at the wall.   
  
“Fëanor, stop this!”   
  
Fëanor reached for the next. His father caught his wrist. Funny how Fëanor could be an Elf full-come into his majority with a fine, strong body of his own, and his father’s huge hand could still engulf his.  
  
“Enough.”  
  
Enough. That was what his father always said. ‘Enough,’ like he couldn’t take any more of Fëanor.  
  
“Leave me be!” Fëanor wrenched his wrist away. “Is it not enough I did not throw a ‘fit’ before your precious nobles? Can you not leave me alone now?”  
  
“I will never leave you alone.” His father tried to draw Fëanor into his arms, but Fëanor would not surrender to them. Not this time.  
  
“Why? Because you have to keep an eye on me so I can be _handled_.”  
  
“I did not mean it how it sounded.” His father reached out for him again, but Fëanor dogged back, putting the barrier of a table between them.  
  
“And how did you mean it?” His chest heaved, eyes flaring fire-bright, nails digging like teeth into his palms.  
  
“Fëanor…” His father floundered because yes, yes, he must have really meant it like that. Fëanor knew it in his heart; he’d always known it. “Fëanor, you must understand, you must see that what you were saying… you cannot _say_ things like this.”  
  
Fëanor threw up his hands. “I have been saying variations of these things for years!”   
  
“But you were a child! You…when you asked questions of the Valar, of our world, it was a child seeking to comprehend it, not a man standing before his people, agitating them, inciting discontent, creating tension—”  
  
“I am not the one creating the tension! I did nothing but bring the tension that had been simmering in hearts to the surface!”  
  
His father sighed, running a weary hand over his face. “This talk of reforming our justice system, examining the Valar’s laws, it must stop.”  
  
Fëanor tilted his chin up. “I will not.”  
  
“Fëanor—”  
  
“I will _not_ be censored. My mouth will not be bound, my hands not shackled from writing the truth of our world and the changes we much embrace. I will certainly not stop speaking out against the Valar’s laws and calling for examination. Those laws have lost whatever purpose they originally served –and only a blind man would say they served a healthy one to begin—they have become the damns blocking the flow of the Noldor’s progress, they have become the poison our own mouths have struck into our bellies every time we pick up shame and use it as a weapon—”  
  
“Are you even listening to yourself?” His father’s voice picked up the boom it shattered debates in council with that ran out of hand. “Do you have any idea how you sound? The Valar and poison have been linked on your tongue! Your words will sow nothing but fear and distrust of the Valar and the land they have given us!”  
  
Fëanor drew himself up. “I did not say the Valar were poison in themselves. I said only that their laws were not suited to our natures. The Valar are, after all, not Elves, they are Ainur, and what an Ainu may find an appropriate law to live under does not necessarily mean the Elder will find it so as well.”  
  
“Fëanor, please,” his father shook his head, face creasing as he lifted a hand towards Fëanor. It did not touch, the width of the table too great.  
  
Fëanor shifted, crossing his arms and looking away from his father’s pleading face. “It was not my intent to stir discontent, only to flare the fire of change. Our society is far from perfect; can you not see that, Father?” Fëanor looked back, searching his father’s face. “I sought only our people’s betterment.”  
  
Father sighed. “I wish you had gone about it a different way.”  
  
“If I had but finished my speech you would have seen—”  
  
“Fëanor!” Father shook his head, mouth parted as if he couldn’t quite believe Fëanor’s suggestion. “You were speaking out against the Valar’s _rulings_. To speak out against the Valar’s wisdom in that way—”  
  
“But do you not see, Father? It was not wisdom! Not for the Noldor. How can you ever suggest that sentencing women to decades in the service of Vairë’s handmaidens for daring to lie with a man not her husband, and banishing those who have found love and pleasure in another body which happens to be the same sex as your own—”  
  
“The Valar have explain why this must be: such desires are the result of the Marring. They must not be encouraged or sanctioned in any way.”  
  
Fëanor’s threw up his head. “Well then, it seems I am ‘Marred’ in this as well, because I would take my pleasure in another male and wear no shame for it. Indeed, had I finished my speech, one at least among the leaders of our people would have stood up for what he believed in and who he is in full.”  
  
“Fëanor…” Finwë’s voice folded up on the air in his lungs. “You can’t…you can’t seriously be suggesting you declare, in the _Great Square_ , that you have….such desire?”  
  
“I am.” Fëanor kept his shoulders squared, meeting his father’s eyes levelly. “I cannot stay silent. Silence is the worse crime I can commit against my own soul. It is to stay seated and muzzled, denying myself, and drawing a cloak of shame against who I am.”  
  
“My son,” Finwë circled the table, reaching out. Fëanor let his father capture his shoulders in his palms. “You must not speak of these desires. Think, Fëanor, _think_! Any hope you have of changing the world in other ways will be scarified upon this altar. Do you think people will rally to your words of reforming the smallest speck of our society if you declare these desires? They will not. Your plans will be grounded before they ever caught the air.”  
  
Fëanor was not a fool, he knew this, but he would speak out regardless. “To stay silent is to condone with my silence the condemnation of those whose only crime is desiring the exact same things I do. If I stand alone, my words dropping on ears hardened against me, then I will count those ears no loss. They are paired with blind eyes who will never look up and _see_ as I do.”  
  
“Please, Fëanor, my son, do not do this. Please, for me, for the love you hold for me and the love I hold for you, do not do this. Promise me, promise me you will not.”  
  
His father should never beg. It hurt Fëanor to see his father doing so now. His heart softened towards his father’s pleas.   
  
“I will not promise to keep my silence long.”  
  
“Fëanor,” his father’s hands squeezed the muscles of his shoulders. “You have had little training in the matters of rule. You never displayed an interest, and I accepted that. But you must listen to me now, my son. I do not think you understand the gravity of this issue. Perhaps your brother Fingolfin could instruct you on the balances of different interest groups within my court—”   
  
Fëanor threw his father’s hands off him. “I will accept no instruction from _that_ corner!”  
  
He’d left Fingolfin a child just sprouting into youth, and returned to find an Elf full-grown into beauty, charm, and pride in his absence. He returned to find his brother irresistible. Irresistible and disappointing and a thief, a thief, a thief.   
  
He’d watched Fingolfin maneuver a room with the deftness and charm of a courtier, and advise lords with the confidence of a statesman. Fingolfin had chosen the path of a politician, and Fëanor would be lying to say he wasn’t disappointed. Fingolfin could have been so much _more_.   
  
Dancing the dance, playing the game, these things had their uses, but only within a greater ambition. But politicians did not play the game with goals beyond their petty grasping at power. Fingolfin had settled for aspirations that would never _reach_ , never grasp at something higher than a game and into greatness. He’d lost himself underneath the cool masks of back-room maneuvering, tip-toeing words, and mediocrity.   
  
Or maybe there were no masks and Fëanor had seen something that had never been there to begin with. But Fëanor had loved that little boy who looked at him like his words were the center of the universe, and followed at his heels like a beloved canine companion.   
  
He’d thought, _hoped_ , he’d find a man blossomed into all the promise Fingolfin had shown as a child. Someone Fëanor could lose hours, days, in the company of as they wrapped themselves so tight about each other’s minds, his passion Fingolfin’s passion and Fingolfin’s his, that they did not notice the passing of time. Someone who was not only physically beautiful, but possessed the character and beauty of the soul shinning out of a little boy’s eyes. He’d been looking for his equal.  
  
But he hadn’t only found a man who’d settled. He’d watched Fingolfin and Father together as well. He’d seen them sharing a glass of wine (‘Just the one, Father, are you trying to get me drunk so you can laugh at me when I stumble over myself in council tomorrow?’ Laughing, Father and Fingolfin, while Father filled the glass to the brim, ‘Can’t a father share a glass of good wine with his son and not be accused of foul plots?’) as they spoke of lords and matters of court Fëanor hadn’t cared to learn because it was all so unimportant next to the mysteries of the world he’d yet to unravel. But it set an anvil on his chest to watch them together, speaking the same language, understanding each other, working together in a way Finwë and Fëanor never had. Fëanor clung to the belief his father loved him best, defiant of every whispered doubt in the darkness of the night, but had they ever shared such companionship as Fingolfin and Finwë did?  
  
Finwë stood here, voicing opinions so divorced from Fëanor’s own, reprimanding him for speaking of improving their world. It ate Fëanor up inside. He’d thought his father understood him. But if Finwë didn’t see the world as Fëanor did, then did he know him at all?   
  
And just when Fëanor thought his heart couldn’t hurt anymore than it already did, his father urged him to follow Fingolfin’s shining example of what a son should be. To be compared to Fingolfin and be found wanting, it was everything he’d ever feared unfolding before his eyes.   
  
Fëanor was afraid. Deep down, where he still missed his mother every day (the little he remembered of her –eyes looking at him like a jewel, ‘my darling boy’— and the parts of her he’d made up in his head and wrapped about himself like her arms used to, before they went dead in Lórien). He was afraid in that place of him that had never stopped fearing his father would ride away one day, leaving him all alone, and never come back. He was afraid in that part of him that molded his body about Nerdanel’s in their bed, arms holding tight, because Nerdanel was a person and one day his love for her wouldn’t be enough to make up for the fact he wasn’t _in_ love with her, and she would leave him. He was afraid in the part of him that snuck into his son’s room at night to press his nose into the baby’s skin, caress those copper curls and whispering a thousand ‘I love you’s,’ because Maedhros would grow up too, and what if one day Fëanor wasn’t enough to stay for?  
  
Fëanor was afraid in that part of him that had looked into Fingolfin’s eyes when he had his brother pushed up against a forge wall, and found no glimmer of admiration or even love staring back, only pride and cold-fury. Fingolfin didn’t love him anymore. Fëanor knew he carried flaws, but he’d kept fighting the doubts off, the ones that wanted to make him their prey when Father had ridden away to Lórien, when Fëanor closed his eyes and heard the wet sound of Father kissing Indis, or when Father’s eyes had lit up with happiness when he held his new son, but if Fingolfin could stop loving him so easily anyone could.   
  
“Fëanor, you are not a child anymore. I have been understanding of your unwillingness to accept Indis and your siblings because I love you, and because you were a child. But if you cannot find it in your heart to love them, then I would ask you at least do not harbor hostility towards them. You may not wish to acknowledge it, but they are my family as well, and your family through me. I wish you would at least try to get along with—Fëanor!”  
  
Fëanor slammed the door shut behind him.  



	8. Chapter 8

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 8  
  
Fëanor snapped the door shut on his old music tutor. He glared at the door as if it were at fault for bringing yet another sightless voice offering ‘soft council’ Fëanor saw right though. They all said the same thing: hold your tongue and sit down.   
  
The list of people Fëanor respected was rapidly shrinking as he crossed out yet another name. Once his tutors had been his staunchest supporters, but he’d gone too far for them. They had come one-by-one to his door, along with a line of masters Fëanor had once held some acquaintance with, to pass off their attempts to muzzle him as the council of a friend. He didn’t need that kind of friendship.  
  
Not every visitor in the weeks since his speech in the Great Square had been those who would ‘handle’ him. The owners of the eyes he’d met in the square, in-between the rows of disgruntled ones, had come as well.   
  
Too long had these eyes been silenced by those disgruntled gazes who now wanted Fëanor silenced. For the disgruntled ones clung to a fantasy world. They had become the kind of eyes to turn away from the sight of a cracked cornerstone threatening the foundations of a building. They walked passed, unwilling to face the reality of an imperfect world where all grief and pain had not been left across the vast distance of the sea.   
  
Fëanor would not be led by the blind. He wanted to change their world for the better, whether they could see that or not, and to do this discussions must be opened about what needed changing. How could the Noldor ascend the mountain’s slope, touch the stars, and blow apart the boundaries of the possible if they stumbled in the darkness of a blindfold?  
  
His wife’s voice called him to table. Fëanor followed the narrow hall of the farm house to the kitchen. He’d not been able to stomach Tirion, and had made all haste to purchase a place outside the city gates when Nerdanel’s belly still stretched with their son.   
  
His father had turned bewildered eyes on Fëanor when he’d come to see his son’s new abode. The house was only a few steps above a hovel. Fëanor’s hadn’t chosen this spot for the house though; he’d picked it for the land.   
  
The acres of land contained a rich blend of woodland, flat farmland with ponds and little rivers, and the rolling foothills of the Pelóri it butted right up against. He owned several similar farm houses to this one now, as he’d bought up the family-owned farms about, having dreams of a sprawling settlement of master craftsmen springing up, a center of thriving innovation. There were no limits to what he could dream, to what he would _accomplish_.  
  
His wife and he had started building the forge and her studio first. They would get to tearing the farm house down and creating something worthy of their hands after. Some of the craftsmen and women from the artisan district in the city had come to lend a hand and share in the companionship of an honest labor of usefulness and beauty every Noldor delighted in. Fëanor welcomed them all, these true friends of years passed. Not one hinted at Fëanor holding his silence, some even brought his speech up, seeking more of the same.   
  
The wives or husbands of the craftsmen and women, those who had no hand for the work themselves, would prepare a meal for the laborers, and after a day of satisfactory labor, all would gather around. Many would linger, Laurelin’s light mingling with Telperion’s, as they sat with Fëanor at the tables set up in the meadow behind the house long into the night, debating their hopes and fears for the future of their glorious people.   
  
Even as a child, Fëanor had found small talk a burden and had come to consider it worthless, but out there, under the open sky, it was not small talk and pleasantries that held them all captivated until the stars crowned the sky. They spoke of the deep matters of their time, and the secret dreams in the cores of their hearts never catching the air before, each of the dreamers thinking these desires unfelt by any other, thinking themselves alone in their forebodings, discontents, and hopes until Fëanor stood up and spoke the secret words of their hearts and taught them that they did not dream alone.  
  
Fëanor found Nerdanel putting Maedhros down for a nap in the baby’s cradle, drug out form the bedroom to stand beside the meal table. Her bodice still hung open from the recent feeding. She buttoned it with tired fingers as she took a seat, resting her feet after a full day. The white power of marble dusted her red hair, and her work dress revealed the outline of the apron she’d worn over it as she worked, the stone dust clinging to her arms and upper chest.  
  
Uireth, the serving girl, removed the lids from the waiting dishes as Fëanor walked in, rolling the sleeves of his simple white shirt up as he came. The hearty scent of seasoned meat and the homely one of fresh bread flooded the room.   
  
“Thank you, Uireth, that will be all.” Nerdanel picked up the carving knife, setting about serving them both a potion as Fëanor went to kiss Maedhros’ soft head of hair. His fingers lingered over the baby’s nose, plump cheeks, and tinny hands.   
  
“Who was that who called?”   
  
Fëanor left the cradle to take a seat at the table beside Nerdanel. “Just another head buried in the sand.” He reached across the table to gather up the work he’d left in a messy stack on its far end. He began sorting through the scribbled notes.  
  
“I left my projects at my studio. I expect one meal with my husband without work lying between us.”  
  
Fëanor looked up, meeting Nerdanel’s eyes. His fingers tapped a crescent over the table’s top, once, twice. “I want to have this essay published by the end of the week.”  
  
Nerdanel carefully rested her fork down on the lip of her plate. “You’ve published at least one new essay every week since the speech.” She held his eyes. Fëanor made an agitated movement. “You have met much resistance, from quarters you didn’t anticipate and some that you did, but will one more essay convince anyone who’s sunk their heels in to see these issues from a different point of view?”  
  
Fëanor’s mouth compressed. He opened the ink pot, and dipped his quill in. “I am not writing for them. Am writing because _I_ need to.”   
  
He burned every time he closed the door on another crossed-out name. Burred more unquenchable for every voice telling him to shut up and sit down. They had only made him more determined. The frustration burned hot; the conviction burned hotter. He wrote a storm of essays, blazed bright as he spoke in a meadow with his people around tables set under the stars, because too much had built up and up and up in his chest and had to come bursting out of him.  
  
Nerdanel gave him a slow nod. “Alright. But you know where this will lead. You are making enemies, Fëanor, because you are making people uncomfortable.”  
  
Fëanor scoffed, his words dripping scorn. “Let them quiver. Only a fool shrinks from the truths of the world and clings to a fantasy paradise.”  
  
Nerdanel cupped her chin, elbow balancing on her chair’s arm. “Everyone sees the world’s colors in different shades of brightness. You see the colors that are missing, the ones yet to be born, and the ones grown overshadowed, even tainted. But others see the beauty still shining bright; they see all the places this land and this life brought them happiness, out of darkness for some and into peace.”  
  
Fëanor fingered the voluptuous feather of his quill. “Yet they have stumbled into the path of the blind. No, they have _become_ the chains dragging us down when they sought to silence me and those who see the truth like I do.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Nerdanel’s voice dropped quiet, thoughtful. “You have not only made people uncomfortable, Fëanor, you have begun to frighten them. You speak with the voice of change, and change is not always for the best, nor is it easy.”  
  
Fëanor pulled his latest draft forward. “They are welcome to tremble, as long as they keep their fears to themselves.” He scraped the excess ink off the quill’s tip, and brought it to rest on his parchment.  
  
“People are entitled to their own opinions, Fëanor.”  
  
“Well, they are the wrong ones!” His fingers tightened about the quill.  
  
Nerdanel did not speak for a moment. She stood to her feet, leaving her dinner unfinished. She touched his shoulder as she walked passed and out of the room. “And yet you would fight with everything you are for the right to your own.”   
  
Fëanor’s jaw clenched. It wasn’t the same. His opinions were the right ones, the ones leading towards freedom. The naysayers could wag their tongues all they liked as long as they did not wag them with the purpose of silencing the rights to every oppositional voice as they did now. When he’d proved his words the right ones, as he would, then the proof would silence those wagging tongues at last.  
  
“I will return to my studio as my husband has not seen fit to leave his work.” Nerdanel took up her doffed apron from its peg by the door. “I’ll leave you to watch the baby for the rest of the day.”   
  
Fëanor bent over the essay, thoughts piling up, and hand flying over the parchment. Maedhros would not sleep for more than a few hours before he would need changing and feeding again. Fëanor lacked nothing in inspiration though; he would make prime use of the time.  
  
*  
  
“Lord Pelloch, I will hear your report on the trade agreements with the Vanyar.” Finwë turned to Fingolfin seated at his right-hand at the Council of Lords, leaning close to whisper for his son’s ear alone. “Take a note of how much we are paying for the Vanyarin summer wines compared to our export of white diamonds, and cross reference it against how much Olwë proposed to sell the Teleri wine for.”  
  
“It will be a sizable difference.” Fingolfin covered his mouth with his hand as he whispered back. More than one of the lords present had large, vested interests in the wine trade and would sniff out any hint of such a major shifting in providers.  
  
“Undoubtedly. What my lords decide to pay for Vanyarin wine is their business, but I’ll cut the trade agreement and do with an inferior beverage if Ingwe doesn’t get his prices under control.”  
  
Fingolfin nodded sharply, and pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment as Lord Pelloch began his report. Neither Finwë nor Fingolfin interrupted Lord Pelloch’s flow of –rather pompous—words. Lord Pelloch was one of the richest lords in the room and knew it. His lord’s ring not only boasted a seal made entirely of solid diamond, but even the band of the ring had been crafted from ruby that linked directly into the diamond face.   
  
Fingolfin kept his face politely interested as he watched the lord wave the hand wearing the ring more often than necessary. Not even the Lord of the Heavenly Arch had commissioned such a flashy display of wealth to be worn permanently upon his person, and that House was known for its opulence.  
  
Lord Pelloch’s report drew to a close and the questioning began. Fingolfin adopted his usual method of observing the lords, offering only the occasional question or insight. Finwë’s management style was more involved, taking a firm grasp of the conversation and leading it in the direction he desired.  
  
The debate ran off course when a side mention of Prince Fëanor slipped in. It was nothing unusual, such poking mentions of Fëanor had become a fixture of the Lords Councils since Fëanor’s politically disastrous speech a few weeks back. Fëanor’s name was brought out like a weapon, aimed at Finwë to prod him with shame that he’d raised such a heretical and rebellious son, but also at the Lord of the Anvil and Hammer who was Fëanor’s unofficial supporter on the council, and any other lord who’d been rumored to seek Fëanor out since the speech. Not many of the High Lords gathered here wanted anything to do with the kind of changes Fëanor spoke of or wrote so passionately and eloquently about in his multitude of essays since (Fingolfin had read them all, secretly).   
  
“It has been noted, my king,” the Lord of the House of the Harp wore a smile only a thin veneer over the sly light in his eyes. “That Prince Fëanor has been seen speaking of his… _ideas_ in the lower quarters of the city. Indiscriminately. Without check. Or,” now the smile turned sharp. “Do you _approve_ , and the prince does not, in fact, speak without the crown’s authorization?”  
  
Finwë’s mouth flattened. “Prince Fëanor, as the Noldor’s prince, _your prince_ , is free to exercise his right to speak in public as long as his words do not directly challenge the Valar, as you will find, lord, that they do not.”  
  
“Yet is this not _harassment_ against the innocent ears and minds of the common folk who have not the authority to ask Prince Fëanor to leave them be? Is it not our duty, as lords of the city, to see to the people’s protection in this matter as all others?”  
  
“They are free to walk away if they find my son’s words disturbing to their sensibilities and beliefs.” Finwë’s face revealed no more irritation then the tightness of his mouth to betray his mounting anger.  
  
Fingolfin’s eye caught on a movement near the front of the room. The door pushed open. He frowned. The servants knew better then to enter without knocking, especially during a Council of Lords when delicate matters were discussed.  
  
He titled towards his father, hand coming to rest on the king’s chair. The distance between their chairs was nothing, for Fingolfin sat on Finwë’s immediate right, in the place reserved for the heir. Finwë had opened the seat that should have been Fëanor’s to Fingolfin when Fingolfin came of age and it was apparent Fëanor would not be attending these lengthy and often times tedious meetings. There was no point in leaving a seat, no matter how ceremonial, empty.  
  
The Lord of the Harp continued on, but Fingolfin missed the beginning of his latest attempt to riel Finwë into imposing some sort of restraint on Fëanor’s freedom of speech. Fingolfin pressed his mouth close to Finwë’s ear, Finwë bending into him. Fingolfin’s hand rested with comfort and naturalness upon his father’s high chair, as his eyes slid back to the door, meaning to alert his father to the intrusion. The words caught in his throat, tumbling off his lips as Fëanor pushed the door the rest of the way open and strode into the room with long strides, shoulders pulled back, head high, looking every inch the prince he was.  
  
The Lord of the Harp, who had not noted Fëanor’s arrival, carried on, “…will you not restrain Prince Fëanor, my king? Prince Fingolfin, you, I am sure, can see the need to control this outpouring of inflammatory words Prince Fëanor has been sowing in the hearts of our people; will you not stand with us in advising the king against letting his eldest run free like some sort of untamed firebrand?”  
  
“Fëanor!” A smile stretched Finwë’s face, but worry clouded his eyes.  
  
Fëanor’s eyes darted between their father and Fingolfin, tracking to the Lord of the Harp, but snapping back to Fingolfin’s hand laying with ease next to Finwë’s own, Fingolfin’s body tilted with the intimacy of confidence into Finwë’s, and last and most damming, Fingolfin’s place in the heir’s seat, Fëanor’s seat by right of birth.  
  
Fingolfin sat frozen. In that one look a flare of resentment against their father sparked in his chest, even as his hands went cold. Finwë had told Fingolfin he would speak to Fëanor about the council seating. He’d promised Fingolfin when Fingolfin had raised his concern over taking Fëanor’s heir seat as his own. But Fëanor would not be looking at Fingolfin like that if Finwë had followed through with his promise.   
  
Finwë had let things lie, putting the conversation off with Fëanor until the time for speaking had passed from ripe to rotten. And he had kept it all from Fingolfin, letting Fingolfin take up Fëanor’s seat without Fëanor’s knowledge or permission because Finwë could not bear to upset Fëanor with even a _request_.  
  
Fëanor spun, cloak snapping out behind him –for once he did not look fresh from the forge, but lordly and ten times more breathtaking then any of the High Lords with all their fine jewelry in the room—the door slammed shut behind him so hard it bounced back and crashed against the stone wall, only the sturdiness of its craftsmanship holding the oak from shattering.  
  
Finwë dashed after his son, calling for him. The grumblings started up immediately, not only against Fëanor’s hot-temperament and lack of propriety, but against Finwë’s lack of restraint as well.  
  
Fingolfin stood. “That will be enough.” His voice rumbled through the room like the distant threat of a thunderstorm.   
  
The lords fell into silence, not all of them without the pinched lips of the grudging. He was less than a year come of age, and his youth was not forgotten by the lords, some of whom had followed Finwë since before the Great Journey. But obey him they did.  
  
Fingolfin took his seat again. As swiftly as he could manage it, he wrapped up the council for the day, doing his best to patch up his father’s damaged reputation. Finwë’s credibility as a respected king and leader of his people came into question every time he failed to control his son, made worse by his inability (or unwillingness) to control his own emotions when it came to Fëanor.   
  
A lord of the Noldor was not impulsive, a lord of the Noldor did not run after their son when he neglected his own control, a lord of the Noldor did not carry their heart in their palm.   
  
A lord of the Noldor was self-contained, self-disciplined, and a model of decorum, subtly, quick-wit and quicker-mind. A lord of the Noldor looked the part every time he showed himself in public: the finest of craftsmanship adoring his person, the richest fabrics shrouding his form, the athletic spring in his step only eclipsed by the lofty carriage of his chin and the straight line of his shoulders.  
  
When Fingolfin finally escaped the council chambers, he went in search of his father and Fëanor. He found them by following the shouting. He couldn’t make out the words yet, but as he rounded the last corner before Father’s study, the door flung open and Fëanor stormed out.  
  
Fëanor’s eye landed upon him almost immediately. Fëanor shot towards him like the coming of a spear. Fingolfin wanted to step back, step aside from the coming impact that he _knew_ would take him in the heart, but he wouldn’t back down. He wouldn’t flee, not even from the rage twisting Fëanor’s face and cutting into his eyes like diamond-bladed knives.   
  
Fëanor did not touch him, did not shove Fingolfin up against the wall like he’d done in the forge. Somehow this made everything worse, made the slap of the _loathing_ pouring out of his brother’s eyes all the harder to bear.  
  
“So. The half-brother proves himself Indis’ son in full this day. Just as she sought to worm herself between my father and I, so too have you. But I _will not_ be usurped! Least by some upstart boy playing at _noble_ prince.”  
  
Fingolfin would not stand here and take this. He would not be _dismissed_. “If you had not run off and shirked your duties as crown prince, there would have been no need for me to shoulder the burdens you left behind to go play with your—”  
  
“You have become one of _them_. Just one more viper in the nest of back-stabbers who use the slow poison of luncheons, afternoon teas, and backroom deals to inject your blind agendas on the world! You are a small-minded politician seeking your own advancement upon the backs of others! You are nothing. Nothing. Not worth my breath, not even worth my spit upon the floor.”  
  
Fingolfin couldn’t breathe, couldn’t build a retort to lash back with. He couldn’t string more the a couple, revolving, thoughts together, all else were like trying to punch through a steel wall with a broken hand.   
  
He couldn’t bear the look of contempt in Fëanor’s eyes, but couldn’t bring himself to look away. He’d fallen passed the level of unworthy in Fëanor’s eyes, and into the contemptible. It hurt worse than anything he’d ever felt in his life, a thousand times worse than every time his brother left him forgotten and forsaken in the dust.   
  
Fëanor walked away –like he always did. He blazed out of the city in a matter of days, uprooting his wife and infant son long before the baby had taken its first steps. None knew where he’d taken them and his household; the wilds some rumors claimed, and Fingolfin eventually believed the outrageous idea of Fëanor dragging an infant into such a lifestyle when no word came from any city or town of Fëanor’s settlement.  
  
Fingolfin found his father collapsed behind his desk in his study, face buried in his hands, back hunched with weariness. It was not the first time in the coming years, Fingolfin would find his father devastated from a confrontation with Fëanor that never failed to leave Finwë bleeding from the wounds his firstborn inflicted upon his heart. (But a soft voice in the dark places of Fingolfin’s mind that had once longed for the proud smiles his father had gifted Fëanor but never him, never quite as bright, and that now seethed with something too close to bitterness, whispered that Finwë deserved to bleed. Had Finwë not brought this all down upon himself? But Fingolfin would not give ear to a voice ruthless and deadly as an early frost. His heart would not be blacked by bitterness).  
  
His mother did not hesitate to feed Fingolfin’s ears with the truth she’d learned through the years of watching Fëanor slowly break Finwë’s heart: All this pain was _Fëanor’s_ fault. Fëanor’s selfishness, Fëanor’s arrogance, Fëanor’s inability to control himself, Fëanor’s negligence towards his duties, Fëanor’s unwilling to listen for _two seconds_ to any mouth but his own.  
  
Fingolfin didn’t believe his mother’s truth, but he wanted to. How much easier it would be if he could suck out all the places that still, even now, longed for Fëanor’s love? How much easier if every hurt could be laid at the faults on Fëanor’s doorstep?  
  
He convinced himself he didn’t care when Fëanor returned for the birth of his second son and gave Fingolfin nothing but a curled lip and eyes turned away when they passed in the halls. He convinced himself his life didn’t feel empty and his heart barren when news of Fëanor’s third son’s birth –born in the wild no less—reached Tirion. He convinced himself he wasn’t hyperaware of every meager moment Fëanor spent in the city during the years between his fourth and fifth sons’ birth when he took up residency in his house outside the city where Fingolfin was not welcome to come (not that Fingolfin had lowered himself to the humiliation of being turned away from Fëanor’s door like a beggar).   
  
The convincing came easier when his own children began arriving and filling up with warmth the coldness Fingolfin had felt like the ache of a starving belly without Fëanor’s fire. But everyday Fingolfin would rise from his bed and look out at the city bathed in gold, and his eyes saw all the grayness in the shadows crawling cold and dark without Fëanor to set the world aflame.  
  
He told himself he would stop this madness. He would stop missing Fëanor. He would stop. It wasn’t like he’d ever had any part of Fëanor to begin with. Not his time, his respect, his returned admiration, not ever his love as a boy, certainly no palmful of his fire to press into the coldness inside his heart and keep him warm.  
  
No, Fingolfin didn’t miss the fire of Fëanor that burnt black as easily as it warmed. He _didn’t_.  



	9. Chapter 9

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 9

Fëanor inked a comment into the margin of Maglor’s essay. He would collect his thoughts in a detailed response later, but for now he wanted to jot his visceral reactions down.

“It is twenty rotations a minute!” Caranthir crowed, leaping up from his chair beside Fëanor at the table, flapping his parchment in the air. “You tried to trick me with the number of logs passing down the river on an _average_ day, but you could not slip the mention of the spring snow-melt by me!”

Fëanor smiled, taking the parchment thrust under his nose. He scanned Caranthir’s work, smile widening the further he read. “Excellent work.” He reached over and mussed Caranthir’s careful dark braids.

Caranthir made a face, but leaned into the touch, smile soon reemerging. When Caranthir smiled, his whole face lit up. The smile crinkled his eyes, folding them to slits, and accentuating the point of his chin appealingly. Fëanor treasured his fourth son’s smiles; they were each dearly bought and too rarely seen.

“Another?” 

“Yes, please, Father.” 

Fëanor abandoned his grading of Maglor’s essay to write out another numbers problem for Caranthir. Caranthir ate them up. He pounced on the new problem, eyes flying over the lines first, before taking his time to soak them up on the re-read. 

Fëanor watched Caranthir for a moment. His son’s dark brows knotted together, quill gripped so tight between his fingers in his eagerness the Tengwar came out in a sloppy mess just like Fëanor’s own looked when an idea poured out him like the crashing of a tidal wave, his hand getting left behind.

Fëanor finished reading Maglor’s essay, and set it aside to pick up Celegorm’s. He’d let his sons choose their own topic for this essay. He wanted to measure their deductive and reasoning skills, and their ability to write a persuasive paper. 

Maglor had naturally chosen to write of musical instruments, and Fëanor could feel the passion bleeding into every word. Maglor argued the lute was more suited to accompany a flautist than the bowed psaltery, which was why Elemmírë’s choice of a bowed psaltery had produced a sub-quality performance at the Festival of the Gates of Summer (in Maglor’s less than humble opinion). 

Fëanor approved of the ‘arrogance’ dripping from Maglor’s criticisms of Elemmírë. Maglor knew what he wrote of, it was only right that confidence should be felt in his writing. Fëanor wrote just the same.

Fëanor laughed as he started in on Celegorm’s essay, if it could even be called that. In truth, it was Celegorm letting Fëanor know exactly how little he cared about writing essays. He cared for them about as much as he’d taken to forge-work or his mother’s attempts to instruct him in the working of stone. 

Celegorm’s current essay detailed a hunt, but instead of Celegorm being the huntsman, he’d taken a wolf’s point of view.

— _The wolf could taste the buck’s fear._

_A mighty wolf with a coat of bronze pounded the earth beside him. They fell upon the buck’s flanks without pity, for there is no mercy to be found in the cycle of birth and death that is the fate of all beasts._

_The buck grunted as it stumbled and fell. The wolf’s teeth sunk deep into its flank, hair and blood filling his mouth. The wolf’s companion clamped his jaws into the buck’s neck and ended the buck’s bleats and jerking struggles._

_The wolf tore a chunk of meat off the buck’s hind. The blood steamed in the chill morning, the flesh delicious and wet in his mouth. Within his mouth pulsed the death of life._

_The two wolves ripped the buck apart, feasting to their bellies’ content. When they had eaten their fill, they stretched out together in the long grass of the meadow, and the bronze-furred wolf licked the blood off his companion’s face, moving down to lick the buck’s last drops of essence from the wolf’s coat._ —

What Fëanor found disturbing was not the brutality of life’s cycle that Celegorm had no doubt thought funny to try and shock his father with, but the bronze-furred wolf licking the blood off Celegorm’s face and coat. It wasn’t a great leap in logic to presume Oromë represented the bronze wolf, as the Vala’s hair shone like that metal in the light. 

Fëanor frowned as he read over the ending of the essay again. He didn’t like it. Celegorm spent too many hours alone in the wilds with that Vala for Fëanor’s unease to be easily tossed aside. He’d never found issue with Oromë’s mentoring of Celegorm before, had in fact encouraged it when it became clear Celegorm’s heart would forever lie in the wilds, but the suggestiveness of the scene bore investigation. 

Fëanor did not trust in the Ainur’s ‘pure’ natures and intentions when it came to the Eldar. He had his own eye-opening experience with a Vala’s lusts when Aulë had revealed his desires towards him. Celegorm was uncommonly beautiful, and _young_. With an imbalance of power as staggering as Celegorm’s relationship with Oromë, Fëanor would take no chances.

“Curufin!” Maglor’s voice jarred teeth and shook the foundations of the house, striking into hearts like flashing lightning. The voice lashed with rage, so Fëanor strode rather than ran to the door, assured no emergency awaited him down the hall.

“It was already broken!” Curufin’s high, clear voice yelled back, still some years short of reforming itself into the deeper octaves of a man.

“It was not broken! It needed _cleaning_!”

Fëanor reached the stairs where his two sons argued only a few moments before Maedhros came dashing down them from his watch at Nerdanel’s bedside. They were all taking turns sitting with Nerdanel. The healers had recommended bed rest, but though her cheeks were pale and she had no strength left to rise from the bed for more than a slow turn about the room, she chafed at the idleness she must endure until the birthing. 

Nerdanel had dreamed twins, a rare treasure, with less than a dozen recorded births of twins in all of Aman. But the pregnancy drained her. Her skin took on a pallor, freckles standing out on her cheeks like the dots on a butterfly’s wings.

“Lower your voices, your mother is resting.” Fëanor’s words pulled his boys shouting voices up short.

A flush washed Maglor’s cheeks, and he clutched the pieces of a thoroughly dismantled flute to his chest, hands overflowing with silver keys. Not even the smallest piece of the flute had been spared; it had been picked apart down to the bone. Maglor glared at Curufin who glowered back, arms crossed over his chest.

Fëanor could tell what happened easily enough. He’d taken apart everything he could get his hands on when he was Curufin’s age, eager to figure out how it functioned, wanting to see the source of the ticking, and inspect the gears in action. 

“Father, look what Curufin has done to my flute!”

Fëanor held out a hand for the pieces, and Maglor surrendered them. Fëanor examined the pieces. Curufin’s dismantling had been careful work. It wouldn’t be difficult to put the flute back together again. 

Fëanor captured Curufin’s eyes, giving his son the quirk of a smile to lift that scowl from his features. Curufin relaxed into it, the defensive tension melting out of him. “If you can put the flute back together again, no harm has been done. But let this be a lesson to you. You should not dismantle something that does not belong to you unless you have the owner’s permission.”

Fëanor handed the flute back to Maglor, and leaned in for Maglor’s ears alone. “It is only an instrument, my son. Precious to you, yes, but worth shouting at your brother over?”

Maglor dropped his eyes, brow creasing. Fëanor put his hand on Maglor’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Maglor looked up into his face, and Fëanor gave him a smile just as he’d given Curufin. As Curufin had relaxed under the smile, so too did Maglor, assured his father was not angry with him.

Maglor turned to Curufin. “I will help you put it together again.” 

Curufin’s brow darkened at the implication he wasn’t up to the task, but it cleared the next moment. “Give it here,” Curufin demanded the flute from Maglor and was granted it. His eyes darted over the pieces, alight with the challenge of fitting everything together again perfectly.

“You can come up to my room.” Maglor slung an arm over his little brother’s shoulders and steered him towards the stairs. Curufin’s feet followed Maglor’s pull, his mind immersed in the problem needing solving. 

Maglor turned a glance back over his shoulder at his father and Maedhros who stood beside him. Fëanor crossed his arms, leaning back into the wall and raising a brow back at his son. Maglor smiled deep enough to show off his dimples, and Fëanor smirked back.

Their heels were disappearing up the stairs when Fëanor called up, “Where is Celegorm?”

Two voices chimed back: “He ran off with Oromë, Father.”

Father grasped at a scowl, but couldn’t help laughing. He’d told that boy he was to finish the studies he’d skived out of all week to traipse through the woods. 

“I saw him running off out of Mother’s window by mid-morning, Father.” Maedhros wore his own smile.

Fëanor shook his head, chuckling. “I will glue his leggings to his desk chair next time.”

“He will just wiggle out of them and run off bare-legged to his woods.”

“Most likely.” Fëanor slipped a hand through his eldest’s elbow. “How is your mother today?”

“She is restless, but too weak to put her hands to anything but sketching. She is ready for the twins to hurry up and arrive.” Maedhros’ silver eyes slid down the curve of his cheekbone to meet Fëanor’s. Their eyes bore the exact same shade, the silver of Míriel. 

Fëanor conceded Maedhros was more perfectly formed than himself. Fëanor had always thought himself the most beautiful Elf in Valinor until his son grew into his beauty, for Fëanor took after his mother. Maedhros would be collecting flocks of simpering admirers if he didn’t spend almost all his time with his father’s people. There were many admiring glances turned on him from among the people Fëanor chose to surround himself with, but that admiration was seasoned with respect. 

Fëanor caught enough of the stares he’d received as a youth and man in Tirion to understand how things would be for his son there. Yet, for all Fëanor’s beauty, his reputation had gone before him and most Elves gave him a wide birth. Maedhros, with his wells of patience, would attract flocks pecking for a piece of him.

“Master Fëanor!” Lision’s daughter skidded around the hall’s corner, braids bouncing behind her. Lision and his family were one of many craftsmen and women who’d migrated out of Tirion to join Fëanor and raise a sprawling settlement upon his wide lands. 

“There is a visitor come for you. Father told me to run and find you. Master Rochiror said to make him wait in the hall, only Master Hermel said to show him into the receiving room, being one of the high lords and all, but Master—”

“Who is it?”

“Lord Melkor.”

Fëanor’s mouth tightened. “Where did you put him?”

“Um…the receiving room, Master Fëanor.”

“Very well.” Fëanor sent the girl scampering back to her father with a message to keep the streets clear during the Vala’s occupation of their lands. The less contact his people had with the jail crow, the better. 

Maedhros’ hand found his, brushing against it. “Do you want me to accompany you, Father? I know how you dislike him.”

“No, I will handle him.” Fëanor paused to touch his son’s shoulder. “Keep your brothers away while Melkor imposes his presence on us. I do not want them near him.”

“Consider it done, Father.”

Fëanor lingered to bestow a smile on his ever-responsible eldest. He’d been blessed his little fox had been his firstborn. If he’d had to rely on Maglor or Celegorm to watch out for their brothers, Nerdanel and his hands wouldn’t have touched their crafts after the number of their sons began to take off.

Fëanor found Melkor in the receiving room. The Vala leaned over the central table, a small, round one with a surface of swirling marble. Upon its heart Fëanor had displayed one of his finest works, the prototype for the lights commonly known about Tirion now as the Fëanorion Lamps. 

Melkor reached out and touched the crystal’s glowing surface with the tips of his fingers. “It is a noteworthy piece of craftsmanship.” He did not look up from his examination to Fëanor standing, brow pinched, in the door. “But the light will fade in time, growing dull, without a ‘recharge,’ if you will, from another master smith who possesses at least a fair understanding of the passing of Power into an object. It will take centuries, maybe even a millennium, but eventually the lamps’ light will fade and they will become again just a pretty crystal.” 

Fëanor stepped fully into the room, crossing his arms as Melkor finally looked up, straightening his back to meet Fëanor’s eyes. The Vala stood a head taller than Fëanor, and had the broad shoulders and strong arms fit for a craftsman. “What business do you have in my home, Melkor?”

Melkor’s mouth twitched. “You are the first, even among your proud people, to address me by my name without an honorific.” The hint of a smile fell, and Melkor’s eyes darkened. “But that is what my _noble_ kin have been teaching the Eldar, is it not? To bow and scrape and kiss their feet for the _honor_ of their presence.”

Fëanor did not like hearing words so similar to his own darkest thoughts on the Vala’s lips. The Valar had refused to give details of Melkor’s crimes and their reasons for waging the Great War that had led to their dark brother’s imprisonment, but there had been rumors. Enough Elves had lived through the terror preying upon them in the Outerlands (though few would speak of it in more than allusion, wishing to flee from the past) that Fëanor had drawn his own conclusions. 

“Answer my question.” Fëanor tilted his head up, sending Melkor his haughtiest look.

Melkor cocked his head, studying him like some curiosity to unravel. Fëanor didn’t like it. “I came because I find you interesting, Fëanor. May I call you Fëanor?”

“No.”

“I find most things in my kin’s _paradise_ uninspiring, and dull beyond enduring. You, however, _you_ ,” Melkor circled around the table, taking slow, deliberate steps towards Fëanor like a panther stalking its prey. 

Fëanor uncrossed his arms, arching a brow as the Vala approached. There was something compelling in Melkor’s dark eyes, something Fëanor found hard to dismiss, near-impossible to look away from. But he did both because he would not be _compelled_. He turned his gaze to look out the window, examining the paved path up to his house and the houses of his followers dotting the road leading back up to the hill of Túna beyond. 

“You will find your boredom is no concern of mine. Indeed, I find you only add to my own.”

Melkor laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. “Do not lie. Just as you know exactly how beautiful you are, exactly how far your intelligence walks above the minds orbiting you, so too do I know I have never, and will never be, boring.”

Fëanor arched a glance back. Melkor had settled his hip against one of the room’s chairs. He relaxed directly before Fëanor, only a little distance outside the length of an arm. A shaft of light poured in through the decorative planes of the window to fall upon his sleek fall of hair, black as a night sky blotted of stars. He was compelling, yes, but Fëanor didn’t trust him as far as he could toss him. 

He found he didn’t hold much trust for the Valar as a whole since Manwë had released Melkor ten years ago. Tulkas had kept Melkor caged in a squat little house on his lands for a decade before, in the Valar’s _wisdom_ , they released Melkor on the Eldar like a hound thirsty for the hunt was sent plunging into the underbrush from his master’s heel. Melkor had been sulking about Tirion since his loosing, about as long as Fëanor had been in the city again, returned for the twins’ birth. 

Melkor studied Fëanor, and Fëanor met the gaze with a challenging one. Melkor’s mouth curved into a smile of secrets and arrogance, as if he knew something Fëanor did not. Fëanor wanted to smack it off the Vala’s face. 

“I hear your wife has taken ill with your latest progeny. I do hope she recovers.”

Fëanor’s lip curled. “I will pass along your concerns for her health.”

“That would be most kind. I would not want anything to happen to her. Like your mother. I heard of that unfortunate series of events.” Fëanor’s nostrils flared. “I thought it strange the Valar were not able to heal her. But then, they never had my…understanding of the Children’s bodies.”

“I wonder how you learned so much about my kind, imprisoned as you were within Mandos these last Three Ages.”

“Do you?” Melkor’s fingertip traced the upholstery on the arm of the chair he reclined against. “Maybe I will tell you sometime. For an Elf of your insatiable curiously in the world, I imagine the Valar’s restrictions will not be able to hold you back from experimenting with every aspect of the world Eru gave into the Elves’ inheritance. That is the right of a _firstborn_ son, after all.”

Fëanor frowned. Meanings sunk into the words, riddles whose illumination flittered just outside his grasp. He hated being condescended to like this. “I will not be requiring your kind of assistance.”

Melkor raised a brow, mouth curling into a smirk. “Do not be so quick to cast my hand aside when I offer it in friendship, Fëanor,” the Vala drew out his name, each syllable enunciated to highlight his use of it. Fëanor’s jaw clenched. “For all the Valar have censored the truth, seeking to protect the image of their own superiority, _I_ am the greatest of my race, the mightiest being that will ever walk Arda. Think you I could not form a body for your mother if I chose? Think you I could not breathe life into it and draw her whole and vibrant once again from Mandos’ imprisonment?”

“Get out.” Fëanor’s hand flung out, finger jabbing at the door. His eyes sparked fire, jaw trembled with violence.

Melkor pushed himself lazily from his perch. He passed Fëanor on his way to the door, dark eyes ensnaring Fëanor’s as he brushed close enough the heat of his shoulder pressed against Fëanor’s arm. The scent of his black mane flowing out behind him hit Fëanor with the power of an orgasm. 

Melkor’s voice came deep and curling in the space between them, “You will see I speak the truth in time, Fëanor. My power cannot be denied. No more than those fools in the city who would try to subvert your greatness will ever succeed. You and I, Fëanor, we are not so very different. We both hunger, and neither of us is willing to be denied.”

“Get out of my house. Do not ever presume to invite yourself into it again,” Fëanor hissed back.

Melkor’s eyes hooded. His passage took him about the curve of Fëanor’s shoulder until his mouth hovered close to Fëanor’s ear, breath striking the bare skin of Fëanor’s neck. “I will prove to you, oh distrustful one, that I speak the truth and have but the good of your family and people in mind, unlike the Valar who would have you worshiping them on your _knees_. I heard that one of your sons rides with Oromë. I knew Oromë’s one-time lover well. He was a _special_ friend of mine. I would watch my son if I were you. Oromë has been a bit _obsessive_ ever since his lover died under…mysterious circumstances.”

Fëanor turned his head away, rejecting Melkor. The Vala hovered behind him a moment, the scent of him –cold stone, iron, and something else, something dazzling, immeasurable, and exciting underneath that pressed the image of vast space filled with balls of light and a thousand thousand mysterious waiting for Fëanor’s fingers to unravel—enveloping Fëanor but not consuming him for Fëanor did not allow it to. 

When Fëanor continued to look out the window, back to the Vala, Melkor chuckled, a low, purring sound, and turned for the door. Despite Fëanor’s blatant contempt and dismissal of the Vala, he didn’t feel like he’d won the Vala’s game.

Fëanor waited for the Vala’s figure to disappear down the road to Tirion, the horse that bore him as dark as its rider. He checked on his sons first, kissing each one’s brow. The words ‘I love you’ fell from his lips with ease, with need, as if he had to make sure they knew he loved them. It felt like he’d had an encountered with death and come out alive.

He went to his wife’s bedside next, reassuring himself there was still a bit of pink in her cheeks. She took his hand, and when she squeezed it, it was not fully devoid of her old strength. 

His boys assured of his love, he set them more studies and instructed Maedhros to have the meal laid without him up in Nerdanel’s room. The hour drew towards evening, but Celegorm often stayed out until the very last minute of the curfew Fëanor had set for him, only riding in as the light of Laurelin receded from the Mingling.

Fëanor went to the stables to await Celegorm’s return. The scent of horse and sweet hay filled his mouth. His eye searched the loft piled with hay before dismissing it and looking for a place of concealment on the level of the stalls. He decided on an empty one near the far end. The horses neighed at him, tossing their heads, demanding attention, but Fëanor walked passed them all. Into the empty stall he slipped, angling its door to cast a deep shadow into which he took up his position. 

There he waited until he heard the pounding of hooves breaking from the tree line. He would discover the truth of this matter as he’d determined to do _before_ Melkor shouldered his way into it like a typical heavy-handed Ainu.

Oromë opened the door and Celegorm led his horse in with laughter, tossing banter back and forth with his mentor. Oromë closed the stable door behind them. And barred it. 

Celegorm took his horse to its stall and worked at the saddle buckle. He looked back to Oromë as the Vala came to rub his hands down the long neck of the horse and start on the bridle. “Next time, you watch, I will move with such silence the first you will be aware of me will be my hunting knife at your throat.”

Oromë threw his bronze mane out of his eyes, sharing a grin with Celegorm. “Still sure you can catch a deer with nothing but your bare hands?”

Celegorm slid the saddle off his horse’s back and swung it up to the stall’s rail. “One day I will. It is only a matter of stealth and speed.”

They finished stabling the horse and walked out of the stall, Celegorm closing the gate behind him. “You did well today, Celegorm. Your determination knows no bounds, and one day soon you will be able to say you are the most dangerous predator in any forest.”

Celegorm mouth stretched into a smile. He shared Maglor’s smile. His cheeks flashed dimples as the last gasps of the Mingling netted in his hair, picking up strands of silver within the gold. His hair hung about him unbound, its wild waves framing a face fairer than all the jewels of the earth. His green eyes collected the light, swirling and shifting like light sinking into the sea.

Oromë towered over Celegorm, taller and broader than any Elf. He dwarfed Celegorm’s slender form, still lithe at fifteen years, only coming into the blossom of his youth. Oromë’s huge hands captured Celegorm’s boyishly slim hips, easing Celegorm back again the stall’s door. 

Celegorm’s smile slipped away. He swallowed, head tilting back against the wood, neck stretching long and pale. Oromë’s mouth fell upon his, engulfing it as he pressed himself down into Celegorm, pinning him against the door. Celegorm’s arms lifted to wind about the Vala’s mighty shoulders.

Fëanor’s hand wrapped about the pitchfork leaning against the wall of the stall he’d been lurking in, before he exploded out of it. He shot towards the Vala that dared laid hands on his son. Oromë only just pulled out of the kiss, turning towards the sound of a rushing body, before Fëanor struck the Vala with the flat of the pitchfork across the width of his back. 

The Vala cried out, stumbling back.

“Get your hands off him!” Fëanor stuck the Vala a blow to the shoulder that had Oromë crying out again. “Take yourself back to your mountain and do not come near my son again or I will _kill_ you!”

Fëanor swung, aiming for the Vala’s head, but Oromë’s hand shot out and captured the pole before Fëanor could land the blow. Fëanor snarled, jerking at the pole, but Oromë’s fist wrapped tight about it. “It is not as it seems. I care for Celegorm—” 

Fëanor swung his fist. Oromë ducked, dancing back on light feet. 

“Father!” Celegorm latched onto Fëanor’s arm as it rose again. “Please!”

Fëanor’s arm came about to coil around his son’s waist and fuse Celegorm to his side. He kept a glare promising murder on the Vala. “Get out. And never come back.” 

Oromë’s gaze slid down to Celegorm. Fëanor’s hands came up to press his son’s head against his chest, hiding Celegorm’s face from the touch of the Vala’s eyes. “Do not _look_ at him.”

“If you would just allow me to explain—”

“Save your breath! There can be no justification good enough for this and you know it, Vala!”

Oromë winced. He took a step back, toward the stable door, “Celegorm, if you should ever want—” 

Fëanor _snarled_. His fingers held tight to his son’s head, stopping Celegorm from turning to meet the Vala’s searching gaze.

Oromë’s eyes flickered back up to Fëanor’s. Fëanor pounded the full cup of his threatened violence into the Vala’s skin with his eyes. Oromë sighed, and tuned away, making himself scarce.

A light tremor started up in Celegorm’s skeleton when the Vala turned away for him. Fëanor ran his hands down his son’s back, smoothing down Celegorm’s hair. He held Celegorm against his chest until the sound of Oromë’s horse’s hooves striking the road faded. 

He eased Celegorm back. His hand lifted to push the hair falling into his son’s face back, but Celegorm ducked, yanking free of his father’s arms. 

Celegorm crossed his arms over his chest and went to his horse’s stall. The horse greeted him with a bump of her nose against his shoulder. His fingers came up to wind themselves in the mare’s mane.

“He is not seeing you again, Celegorm,” Fëanor kept his voce quiet, as one would talk to nervous colt.

“He is my friend.” Celegorm’s shoulders straightened. He wiped his cheeks, and turned. He’d set his jaw. “I am not a child, and what I choose to do with Oromë is my concern.”

Fëanor studied his son’s upthrust face for a moment. He closed the distance between them and came to stand at his son’s shoulder. The mare greeted with him a whinny, and Fëanor sank his hand into the bucket of oaks by her stall, pulling up a fistful and holding it out for her. He patted her neck as she chased the last pocket of oats from his palm. He watched out of the coroner of his eye as the stiffness unwound from Celegorm’s shoulders, and his fingers came up to stroke down the mare’s velvety nose. Only then did Fëanor speak.

“When I was a little older than you are now, there was a boy I desired. He was beautiful, and if I had reached out and taken him then, he would have been mine. But he was too young. To have touched him in that way would have been wrong. I knew it, even then, little more than a child myself. There are some things a man just does not do, and Oromë has done them.”

“I am not too young. I knew what we were doing. I wanted it.”

“Did you?” Fëanor’s eyes turned to capture his son’s. Celegorm’s mouth thinned. “How could you if you had never been touched in that way before?”

“Everyone has to start sometime. Boys my age do all sorts of things.”

“With each other, or with girls of their own age. Everyone has to start somewhere, yes, but not at fifteen with a Vala older than time itself.” 

Celegorm’s eyes dropped. His voice fell soft, a note of persuasion threaded in, though Fëanor thought it more for himself than his father. “He said he did not want to hurt me. And he didn’t. He _didn’t_.”

Fëanor turned, abandoning the mare to settle his hands on his son’s shoulders. When Celegorm didn’t push him off, Fëanor pulled him into an embrace. Celegorm smelled of leather, horse, and that wild, free scent of a forest. Fëanor kissed the hairline at Celegorm’s brow.

“Tell me what he did.” Fëanor’s hands followed the curve of his son’s back, stroking up and down.

“Father!” Celegorm tried to wiggle free. “I am not telling you that!”

Fëanor didn’t let him go. “It will be good for you to speak of it. And I need to know what he did to you.”

“Why?” Celegorm ceased his struggles, but wariness crept into his voice.

“Because he hurt you, and I need to know how badly.”

“He didn’t hurt me. I told you!”

“If you do not want me to believe he hurt you, then tell me how it was between you.” No amount of tenderness on Oromë’s part could ever make up for him touching a child.

Celegorm held his silence for another moment, before he began in the quiet voice fit for the confession of a youth sharing his first sexual experiences with his father: “We never…you know…”

He couldn’t even name it.

Fëanor started to draw back, seeking a glimpse of his son’s face, but Celegorm pushed himself into his father’s chest, face burying in Fëanor’s shoulder. “Don’t make me look at you when I say it!” Fëanor chuckled. “It is not funny, Father! Did you ever tell Grandfather about your first…you know…stuff?”

Fëanor laughed outright. “Never.” He squeezed Celegorm, kissing his head. “Now stop delaying.” Celegorm mumbled something against Fëanor’s shoulder. “What was that?” Fëanor’s mouth curled about a smirk.

Celegorm huffed. “I said we never had sex sex, all right?”

“Hmm,” Fëanor combed his fingers through Celegorm’s hair. All the lightness fled from his voice when he spoke again, “How young were you when he first began touching you?”

“You make it sound like…!” he pulled out of his father’s arms to send Fëanor a glare. “Oromë only kissed me a few _months_ ago. I told you: I wasn’t a child!”

Fëanor reached out and settled his hands on the bones of Celegorm’s collar. “So he kissed you. What else did he do?”

A furious blush darkened Celegorm’s cheeks, and he wouldn’t meet his father’s eyes. “And he touched me…you know. And I touched him. Sometimes he would…put me in his mouth, and I would…you know, him,” Celegorm finished on a whisper. “But he said he would not have sex with me until I was older because he didn’t want to hurt me and I was, um, too small…” Celegorm trailed off in a mumble, face burning.

How _consideration_ of him. Fëanor only just bit back the sneer. He should have stuck the pitchfork pointy-side first right between the Vala’s legs. If Oromë ever showed his face around here again, Fëanor would.

“He didn’t hurt me. He really didn’t, Father.” Celegorm’s eyes finally met his, brows creased in earnestness.

Fëanor’s hands came up to capture Celegorm’s face in his palms. “Come here.” He pulled Celegorm back into his arms.

Celegorm rested quiet in his father’s arms for a time. Then he ventured, voice soft, “Sometimes it was a bit…overwhelming. I know Oromë would have stopped if I asked him to, only…only I didn’t want him to think I couldn’t handle it.”

Fëanor closed his eyes and clutched his son closer. “Sex should not be frightening. When you are older—”

“I know, Father,” Celegorm sighed. “I was just saying. It wasn’t as if I didn’t like it.” 

“It is over now. He will not touch you again. If you desire to experiment more, I would like you to find someone your own age.”

“What about my mentoring? Who will hunt and hawk with me, how will I learn all the secrets of the forest? You have never let me go alone before—”

“One of your brothers will accompany you. Or take one of your friends. But no, you are not going alone.” Not only was it dangerous, but Fëanor did not trust Oromë to keep his distance. He might lay in wait in the woods, waiting a chance to catch Celegorm alone. 

“I guess that wouldn’t be too bad.” Celegorm’s face split into a mischievous grin. “Maglor and Maedhros have grown soft. They haven’t hunted in ages. I will _destroy_ them.”

Fëanor threw his head back and laughed. 

They walked together back to the house, Fëanor’s arm about his son’s shoulders. The sound of paws clicking against stones greeted them as the door opened. Celegorm’s puppy barked a greeting as it came, taking the hall’s corner too tight, paws scrambling to keep its footing as it slid over the stones. Its feet under it again, it renewed its dash to Celegorm.

Celegorm crouched down and scooped the puppy up as it barreled into his chest. The puppy covered Celegorm’s face with licks, yipping its happiness, tail wagging fiercely. 

Celegorm turned big green eyes up at his father, cuddling the puppy close. “I don’t have to give Huan back, do I? It would break Huan’s heart.”

Fëanor snorted, hand coming out to tousle his son’s hair. “No. Huan is yours.”

Celegorm’s smile dazzled. 

They found the boys gathered in Fëanor and Nerdanel’s room, the remnants of the evening meal scattered about in plates and cups not yet cleared away. Caranthir and Curufin played a card game together on the floor as their mother dozed on the bed listening to Maedhros’ silky voice reading aloud to her. Maedhros and Maglor had pulled one of the half-couches up to their mother’s bedside, and Maedhros sat with his long legs stretched out and Maglor’s head pillowed in his lap, long fingers playing idly with Maglor’s hair as he read.

Celegorm left his father’s side for Caranthir and Curufin’s, sprawling out on his belly across the floor. He started ribbing and charming them into starting a new game so he could be dealt in too. Huan padded around, poking his nose into the scraps of meat Caranthir had left on the plate he’d abandoned on the floor beside him. Huan snapped the meat up, licking his nose before diving in to lick the plate clean.

Curufin held his plate hostage when Huan came sniffling over, using it to lure the puppy into his lap. Only when Curufin had what he wanted, did he surrender Huan’s reward. Huan was well and truly caught now, and wouldn’t be escaping Curufin’s lap for the rest of the evening. Curufin loved cuddling, both being cuddled and doing the cuddling, and Huan’s soft, warm body was perfect for it.

Fëanor slid onto the bed beside Nerdanel, moving close to pull her into his arms. Her head fell onto his shoulder with a sleepy, contented sigh. 

His hand crawled under the blankets to settle on her stomach. He closed his eyes and felt out the pulse of the twin heartbeats, then went deeper. He brushed against the bright, pure flames he found, twined together so tightly where one ended and the other began was impossible to discern. He kept the touch of his spirit reaching out to theirs soft and banked like the gentle fire of a hearth that comforted and brought life to a home, taking infinite care not to startle or scorch the delicate flames arching up to meet him. He could feel the joy in their greeting in the way they wrapped about him like a baby’s fist about its father’s finger.

*

“Father, you called for us?” Maedhros held the door open for Maglor who followed him into their parent’s bedroom, before shutting it behind them.

Fëanor looked up from the twins he’d laid out on the bed, and gestured for his sons to sit on the bed’s other side. “Yes, did your mother tell you of what I wished to discuss?” Fëanor folded up Amras’ soiled nappy, and tossed it into the waiting bucket to join Amrod’s. He finally allowed himself to breathe freely now the worst of the stench had cleared the air.

Maglor settled against the pillows, flipping his feet up on the bed after toeing off his sandals, and crossed his ankles. Maedhros took a seat lower down on the bed, stretching out like a cat on his side to curl his fingers in the twins’ ginger ringlets. 

“Mother did not say.” Maedhros’ fingers fluttered down the side of Amras’ face like butterfly wings to tickle the buttery soft wrinkles in the baby’s neck. Amras giggled, reaching for the fingers, big eyes blinking up at his eldest brother. Maedhros gave his littlest brother a beautiful smile.

Fëanor wrapped one hand about Amras’ tinny feet, and lifted the baby’s lower body up to spread out a fresh nappy underneath his bottom. “Nerdanel has proposed the two of you spend some time in Tirion with my father to learn more of the world. You are a man now, Maedhros, and Maglor you are nearly one yourself.” 

Fëanor fastened the cloth secure about Amras’ stomach. He looked up to catch the expressions on his son’s faces. Maedhros had his head turned back to share a glance with Maglor. Maglor’s expression was complicated, a war between excitement and doubt. 

“I am against the idea.” Fëanor drew their eyes back to him. “The twins are not yet a year old, and your other brothers will miss you, even if you are less than a day’s ride away.” (I will miss you. I do not want to let you go. What if you do not come back to me?) But Fëanor kept those words sealed behind his teeth, his fears on a leash. He would not burden his sons with them. “But I will take your opinions into consideration. You, Maedhros, are twenty-one already, old enough to make your own choices and be out in the world. I…realize how much you have sacrificed of your own life to remain at home while your brothers grow—”

“It was never a sacrifice, Father.” Maedhros’ hand came to settle on Fëanor’s. “I would not wish myself anywhere but here, with my family and our people. You have shorted me nothing. I have received the finest education of any son ever born, with the greatest masters of the land as my tutors. But most: I have known the joy of love to abundance, and the security of love unconditional.” 

Fëanor reached up and cupped his son’s face, holding the angle of his jaw, and pulled Maedhros forward for a kiss on the brow.

“You leave out the best part.” Maglor’s voice slipped into their chests, coiling radiance about their hearts. “We have traveled the world! We have looked into the vastness of the Encircling Seas with you, Father, as only the Ainur’s eyes had know before. We have walked the heights of the Pelóri until our breaths came thin and cold in our lungs, and swam the warm waters of the Southern Ocean where the waves roll high as oaks in a sea the blue of which left even my tongue stumbling to paint in words!”

Maedhros laughed, shaking his head at his brother. “You? Left speechless? The world will end before that day comes.”

Maglor tossed his hair over his shoulders, flashing a dimpled grin. “So you admit it at last, Brother-mine: my tongue is the cleverer of our two.”

“I admit to nothing. It was not I who could not find words for that particular shade of blue. I believe it goes by the name azure. You should remember it if you aspire to write anything but bad poetry.”

“ _Azure_! You wound the sea to the heart with your calloused naming of her beauties!”

“My practicality, you mean? What flowery pose would you have attributed to her, then?”

“The goddess of all blues before which even the summer sky and the sapphire’s pureness must bow!” Maglor threw a pillow at Maedhros’ head with a laugh. 

“The babies, boys.” Fëanor caught Amrod’s body rolling down into the bed’s center. Amras followed, his position upset by his elder brothers’ antics.

“Sorry, Father!” Maglor had risen to his knees, but dropped back down as Maedhros scooped up a giggling Amras, the twins thoroughly enjoying the slide down the quilt. 

Fëanor settled Amrod on the baby’s belly, and Maedhros laid Amras down beside him. Amras’ little arms pushed his chest up off the bed, head swiveling around. Amrod rose to his arms as well and started crawling to his twin. His tinny hands pushed into the bed, the uneven surface giving him some difficulties, but his face was determined, and he reached his twin at last. 

The twins curled about each other’s bodies like an armadillo, like two halves of a whole slotting together. Their hands grabbed a fistful of the other’s identical curls. They blinking at each other, noses an inch from touching, utterly wrapped up in the mirrored face peering back at them.

Fëanor rubbed his fingers over the babies’ backs, and their blinks became heavy and sleepy. He looked up to find a soft smile on Maedhros’ lips as he watched the twins. Fëanor’s heart swelled. He could not have asked for a better son then Maedhros. All his sons were gems to be boasted of, treasured, and to stick Vala with pitchforks over, but Fëanor knew just how fortunate he was to have such a son as Maedhros. He was the envy of every father in the land.

“What are your thoughts of your mother’s proposal? Would you like to stay with your grandfather for a time and study under the masters in the city?” He couldn’t help adding, for he took pride in his people and knew those who followed him were the finest of the Noldor, “Though no city master can compare to the ones you have studied under, and no craftsman left in the city can give you half the training you would receive here. At home.” 

But his sons’ hearts did not lie in the shaping of stone, metal, gem, or any other medium. “I am proud of the effort both of you have given to the learning of the forge. You possess no little skill. If either of you wished to pursue craftsmanship you could easily achieve mastery in the discipline of your choosing, but I can see clearly that your hearts do not lie in a forge.”

His sons exchanged another look, coming to a silence agreement. Maedhros spoke for them. “We are loath to part from our brothers, you, and mother. And our home here, with our friends and people, but…” He looked back over his shoulder at Maglor. Maglor sat forward, hands linking over his knee. 

Maedhros caught his father’s eye again. “For a time, yes, we would like to join Grandfather in the city. As long as we go together.”

“I would not send one of you alone.” Fëanor struggled to keep his disappointment out of his voice. 

He would tie his sons by shackles to his wrists if he could, swallow them down, one by one, so they could never leave him. But to hold them as close as he craved would be to smother them, to destroy everything they were, and turn their hearts against him as they clawed for freedom.

He loved his sons with a fierce, clinging fire. It was the kind of love that wanted to wrap itself about every inch of the loved one’s skin and snarl ‘mine’ at intruders creeping too close. Fëanor had spent years analyzing his love for his sons, needing to know what would keep them close, but more, needing to know how to love them properly (as Father had never—no. Don’t think it.) He thirsted for their love in return and their eternal presence at his side, but he loved them too well to suffocate them; he loved them too well to steal chances at happiness –even without him in it—from their grasp. His love overrode every fear like the rumble of a giant’s voice swallowed the lark’s.

A hand on his shoulder brought his gaze back up to Maedhros.’ “We will see how it goes. Just because we try it does not mean we cannot come home if we cannot bear to be parted from you.”

Maglor tossed his legs on the floor and circled around the bed to slide into it beside Fëanor. He pressed his nose into his father’s shoulder, tilting a smile up. “What is a day’s ride? Do you think we would never visit and risk Celegorm’s scatter-brain forgetting his big brothers’ names? We cannot have that!”

Fëanor slipped an arm about Maglor’s waist, pulling his boy close. “Do not let that clever tongue get away from you. Remember, Celegorm is better with a bow then you –and a spear, knife, and—”

“Yes, yes,” Maglor rolled his eyes. “He is a wolf in disguise. Thank you for reminding me, I might have forgotten as he only tells us twice a day as it is.”

“And the dozen other times he rubs it in your face when you are hunting with him,” Maedhros laughed.

“That is because he cannot stand I am as good a hawker as him!” Maglor grinned.

“You cheat. You use that golden voice of yours to trick the hawks.”

“ _Sooth_ them. There is a substantial difference. I will thank you not to forget it. My skills are not trickery, but pure talent.”

“However will they stand him in Tirion?” Maedhros’ eyes danced as he quirked a smirk at his father.

“He will be run out of the city before the month is out. Tirion has no appreciation for a healthy ego.”

“Speaking from personal experience, Father?”

“Of course. Tirion is so bloated with the egos of lesser men, a man with a genuine claim to pride, like myself, terrifies them.” Fëanor lifted a haughty brow that sent his sons into laughter. 

The twins woke cranky from all the noise. Fëanor scooped Amrod up. “Maglor, take them to your mother. I want a word with your brother.” 

“Yes, Father.” Maglor took both the twins in his arms, one in the crook of each elbow, and headed from the room with a raised eyebrow back at Maedhros. Maedhros shrugged one shoulder back, the gesture a perfect mix of elegance and nonchalance.

When the door shut behind Maglor, Fëanor turned to Maedhros. “I need you to look after your brother in the city.”

“Of course, Father. I had already been planning to.” Maedhros’ face projected his perfect seriousness.

Fëanor touched his son’s cheek with a fingertip. If there was any he could trust with his boys it was Maedhros. “Maglor will attract admires, just as you will, but also jealousy on account of his peerless talent. I spoke in jest, but the musical ‘masters’ of the city will not like being put in their place by a boy barely seventeen. And you know your brother, he knows he is the best and is not afraid to say so. His arrogance but a healthy confidence, yet it will rub most the wrong way. They will want to take him down a peg or two. More than this, I worry for him. He is prone to seeing the best in others and giving even snakes a chance to prove themselves. Rather: to burn him. He will need your guidance and protection lest he be eaten alive in that court.”

“I will watch out for him, I promise.”

Fëanor linked his fingers with Maedhros.’ “I worry for you as well. You are so beautiful. There will be those who try to prey on—”

“Father.” Maedhros’ eyes saw right down into the depth of Fëanor, understanding even the parts Finwë and Nerdanel never had. Maedhros smiled, soft and loving. “Everything will be fine, you’ll see. We love you. We are always going to come home to you.”

Fëanor brought Maedhros’ hand up to his lips, his own shaking, and pressed a kiss into his eldest’s palm. He could slip no words passed the knot formed in his throat. Maedhros’ other hand came up to cup his father’s, needing no words.


	10. Chapter 10

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 10

Fingolfin knew Fëanor was on the other side of the door before his father and Fëanor’s voices came muffled through the wood. Fëanor’s smell had lingered in the corridor. Fingolfin would know it from ten-thousand others. Fëanor carried the scent of a forge upon his skin, lingering in his hair. But the smell of fire went deeper, down to the soul. 

The smell of someone else’s skin did not wrap around Fëanor’s scent today. Fëanor had every right to lie with his wife, and smelling Nerdanel on him shouldn’t upset Fingolfin as it did. No, he was not upset. He had nothing to be upset over.

Fingolfin closed his eyes, breathing in (Not inhaling his brother’s scent, just gathering his control. If he happened to smell Fëanor on the air, well, he hadn’t sought it out). There was a hint of the soap Fëanor had favored even in his youth, and underneath that the dark musk that had Fingolfin hard even before he’d laid eyes on his half-brother.

Fingolfin clenched his fists. He was _not_ doing this again. He should turn around now, go back to his study and seek his father out later, after Fëanor had gone and only the scent of him lingered. He shouldn’t open the door, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. 

His hand settled on the cool metal of the door’s handle and turned it, pushing it open. He was a beggar when it came to Fëanor, a beggar. 

He didn’t know who he despised more as Fëanor’s eyes swung to him and with that one look ignited a path of fire straight to Fingolfin’s groin even as his heart struggled against the longing: himself for being this pathetic –still—or Fëanor for doing this to him without even trying, because Fingolfin would never be worth trying for.

Fingolfin didn’t let even a flicker of his inner turmoil show on his face. He’d been employing his masks for years now. He’d risen to become a major player of the game of politics; he knew how to walk softly and hide his heart deep, deep inside.

Fëanor didn’t hide a thing. He was as uncontrolled as ever. Fingolfin despised that lack of control. He did. He must. 

Fëanor’s lip curled as he saw Fingolfin, eyes sliding off him and back onto their father. Fingolfin wasn’t worth a second glance. Fingolfin’s head came up, and he strode into the room, settling into the seat before Finwë’s desk with dignity.

“Fingolfin,” Finwë smiled a welcome. “Your brother has been telling me some wonderful news.”

“Oh?” Fingolfin raised a perfect eyebrow, turning to Fëanor with feinted disinterest. “Is your wife expecting yet again? It was my understanding the birth of your twin sons was hard on her.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed, but they had focused back on Fingolfin. A thrill flipped Fingolfin’s belly. The look was the opposite of the kind he wanted, but it was a _look_. 

“The health of my wife is none of your concern.”

Fingolfin lifted his shoulder in an elegant shrug, turning back to Finwë. 

Finwë’s eyes drifted between his two sons with sadness creased into his face. But he tucked the expression away to pull out a wide smile. “My grandsons, Fëanor’s two eldest, are coming to live here in the palace with me.” Finwë stood to clap Fëanor on the shoulder. “You have made me very happy, my son. I have desired greatly to know my grandsons better. It has grown lonely here without the sound of laughter and young, boisterous voices in my halls!”

Fingolfin felt like he’d been backhanded. The way his father spoke, it was as if Fëanor’s sons were Finwë’s only grandsons. As if the sounds of Fingolfin’s children running through the halls, filling all the palace with their warmth, did not exist, or meant nothing next to the children of Fëanor.

Fingolfin struggled to keep the mask of polite interest in place; but it had cracked, if only for a moment. Finwë was oblivious, caught up in Fëanor as ever, and Fëanor didn’t spare Fingolfin a glance.

Now, finally, Finwë remembered he had a second son, and turned to Fingolfin. “Your own children will be eager to meet their cousins. Fingon is fourteen now and Maglor has only just turned seventeen, not too much a stretch. Yes, this will be splendid!” Finwë smiled, but the corners strained as he looked between Fëanor and Fingolfin’s unsmiling faces.

Fëanor stood, taking his father in a swift, fierce embrace, before pulling back. “I will take my leave—”

“Fëanor, you only just arrived!” Finwë’s hand landed on Fëanor’s shoulder, staying Fëanor from turning towards the door. “Stay for the evening meal. You can return to your family with the morning.” Fëanor’s brow bent, and Finwë pressed, “For me, my son. It has been too long since I enjoyed a meal with you here, in these halls we once shared.”

Finwë was one of the only people alive who could make Fëanor’s face soften like that. Fëanor’s mouth curved into a smile that sucked all the breath out of Fingolfin’s lungs. The upper section of Fëanor’s hair had been swept back in a silver clasp, but the remainder fell down his back like liquid ink. Golden light pooled in the gentle curve of his neck, and desire coiled in Fingolfin’s belly.

“Very well. Just for the night.”

“Excellent!” Finwë squeezed Fëanor’s shoulder before releasing him. His eyes slipped between Fingolfin and Fëanor. “I should bring Indis the good news of my grandsons’ coming. Fingolfin, you’ll keep your brother company until I return, won’t you?”

Fëanor’s mouth tightened. “That is not necessary. I will show myself to my old rooms.”

“No, Fëanor, I’ll be back in a moment. There are some matters of importance I would discuss with you –privately.” 

Fëanor hesitated. Finwë knew Fëanor would be lured in by the tantalizing piece of bait Finwë had dropped. Matters of a private nature, just between the two of them, would appeal to Fëanor. But Fëanor could see right down to their father’s manipulations to make Fingolfin them spend time together, and resented it. He hated being manipulated. Still, the bait would not be a fraud, and he wanted his father’s private confidence as well.

Fëanor’s shoulders set. He would not take the bait. He hated being manipulated more then he longed for the days of secrets just between father and son. 

But Finwë still had his trump card. “Please, Fëanor. For me?”

If Finwë kept using that card, it would wear out its worth. For now it still held currency, and Fëanor conceded to spending time in Fingolfin’s presence despite the manipulations that had placed them alone together.

When the door shut behind Finwë, a silence fell between them. Fëanor didn’t look at him; his fingers tapped against the leather of his boot where his ankle crossed his knee. Fingolfin’s pride burned, fierce and hot as a desert. He would not be _ignored_.

He struggled to keep his voice aloof, unable to stop himself from poking at Fëanor. “So, what brought on this sudden desire to allow your sons to walk among us unworthy masses?”

Fëanor’s eyes snapped to him. Fingolfin had it; he had Fëanor’s complete attention. Fëanor’s eyes cut into the skin of his face, but they were all for Fingolfin. 

“You are correct. You are far below my sons. I send them now to my father’s side, if you should catch the tail-end of their presence, I would advise you to bask in it for that is all you shall ever receive.”

Fëanor’s arrogance was unbearable, but completely expected. Fingolfin should let it lie now, let it lie, but Fëanor was like a drug, addictive and dangerous. Fingolfin was beginning to understand he would rather have Fëanor’s animosity then his dismissal, then nothing at all.

He tried to snatch back his control, but everything unspun if he was in Fëanor’s presence long enough. The masks were mere creations. He had a talent for wielding them, but underneath he churned with all the passion of a flooding river. It was all he could do to hold his voice steady and keep his shredding control contained to his knuckles whitening against the chair’s armrests (and under it all rode the lust that never, ever, went away in Fëanor’s presence). 

“One day, Fëanor, you will lower your eyes from that haughty upturn and discover that you are utterly alone in the world because no one else could bare the stench of your superior attitude a moment longer.”

Fëanor tilted his head, mouth twisting in a smirk, taunting Fingolfin, making sure Fingolfin knew just how far below him Fëanor thought him. “You cannot bear it, can you? Forever walking in my dust? You will be a little man with a little dream and a little life for the rest of your life, and you cannot bear it.” 

Once upon a time Fëanor would have been lashing back. That smirk could have never been sustained when the tension pulled tight between them, so thick Fingolfin’s skin vibrated with it. But Fëanor had learned a little control it seemed. And grown more arrogant. 

Fingolfin mourned the loss of the innocent arrogance Fëanor had once possessed in their childhood, when Fëanor could believe he was the smartest person in the room because it was true and he was merely stating a fact, and when he named someone not worth his time it was because they had tried to limit him in some way, not because they hadn’t been born as gifted as himself.

Fingolfin didn’t like the person Fëanor had grown into, but he couldn’t stop the lust from raging. He would not be ruled by lust. He would not be ruled by his _need_ for Fëanor. He didn’t need Fëanor. He didn’t need anything about him. 

Fingolfin slammed his eyes into Fëanor’s, heat curling down his spine to find them locked so intensely upon his own face. He didn’t believe half the words piling out of his mouth, but said them anyway. Anything to hit back. “You are so afraid one of the people telling you you have stepped wrong, gone too far, might be right, that you paint every voice of dissention over with the whitewash of ‘beneath you’ so you do not have to listen to the words coming out of their mouths. In the end, you are just a scared little boy.”

Fëanor surged out of his chair and was upon Fingolfin in a heartbeat. His hands planted on Fingolfin’s shoulders, thrusting him back against the chair. Fingolfin’s head came up to meet the violence in Fëanor’s face. His hands leaped up to dig into Fëanor’s forearms, feeling the heat of Fëanor’s skin underneath the tunic’s sleeves.

Fëanor did not speak for a long moment, just looked at Fingolfin. Fingolfin’s hands shook. It was because of the rage, just the rage; but even he didn’t believe that.

Fëanor’s voice dropped low and twisting like the kinds of shadows that clung to skin and sunk down into the bone, poisoning. “Sometimes, when you strike back at me like this and show me a glimpse of something more than the slime you have covered yourself in and eat and drink like wine as you go about your mediocre life, you almost have me fooled there is something more to you then the person you present to the world who I despise. But you see, _Half-brother_ , I know how your kind delights in games. There is nothing under there, is there? Every flash of passion is just an illusion. There is no part of you left I do not hold in contempt.”

Fëanor released him, straightening. He wiped his palms down his tunic as if he’d touched something foul. He didn’t spare Fingolfin another glance as he strode for the door.

No.

A single sob broke from between Fingolfin’s teeth. The rage and humiliation scorched his throat black, and came up in a whoosh of breath. The wetness in the sound was from where his ribs closed over his heart and squeezed it to death. 

Even now –always—Fëanor held the knife in his hands. He plunged it into all Fingolfin’s soft places, and Fingolfin was helpless, too _pathetic_ , to block the stabs. Fingolfin despaired of ever wrestling that knife out of Fëanor’s hands, of ever taking back the power Fëanor wielded over him and always had.

He couldn’t stop wishing…wishing…if only. He would have done anything, _anything_ , for Fëanor to just wait for him, just turn back a glance over his shoulder as he walked away, just give one smile, one hand outstretched for Fingolfin to take, one mile they walked side-by-side. 

Fëanor would never do any of those things, so Fingolfin learned to unsee all the pieces he’d once loved about Fëanor, and pick out all the ones he could dislike. It was better to loath when one was loathed then be the pathetic dog running after the heels of someone who was never going to look back.

Fëanor swung around at the weakness drawn up from Fingolfin’s faltering heart. Mouth parted, he stared at Fingolfin, eyes mapping over the skin of his face as if it were the paths of stars. A frown drew his brows down, and his eyes birthed wonder. Almost as if…

Stop. Enough. _Ridiculous._

Fingolfin pulled in a steadying breath and stood. He straightened his tunic, and settled an expression of stately pride on his face. He wouldn’t give Fëanor the satisfaction of seeing how far the knife could still plunge. 

Only when he had collected himself did he meet Fëanor’s surprised eyes. Yes, it was just surprise. Surprise that Fingolfin had allowed such a vulnerable sound passed his fist of control. 

Fëanor took a step back towards Fingolfin, and then another, that complicated look (just surprise, it couldn’t be anything more) not falling from his eyes. “Were you…crying?”

Fingolfin jerked. “Excuse me?”

Fëanor’s mouth pulled down in a crescent, matching his frowning brow. Fingolfin had to act before that _concern_ morphed into anger. Fëanor was not a monster, of course he felt some slight twinge of conscious at the thought of reducing Fingolfin to tears (Not that he had. Fingolfin hadn’t cried over Fëanor since he was a child). But the concern only stretched so far, and any concern for Fingolfin would already be stretched to its limit. Fingolfin had to cut it off before it slapped him in the face like a snapped harp string. He couldn’t…he couldn’t bare it if that voice, so polished, deep, and unforgettable asking with softness “Were you crying?” turned back into venom. He couldn’t bare it. Not today. Please.

Fingolfin dragged his eyes down Fëanor’s body, the bones of his face set in a perfected mask of disinterest. “Crying? I think not. That would require your words to mean something to me.”

Ah, now it came. The concern shattered like a sheet of ice breaking under the strain of wagon attempting to forge a thinly frozen river. Fëanor’s eyes shone bright and sharp as cut glass. “What did you hope to gain from this?”

Fingolfin arched a brow. “To what do you refer?”

Fëanor’s face blazed. “Do you think to manipulate me? I will not play your games. Whatever it is you sought, you will not have it from me!”

Fingolfin’s forced his mouth to curl into a smug crook of a smile. He swept passed Fëanor with a long stride, turning back to slide a glance over his shoulder, locking eyes with Fëanor. “What makes you think I did not already achieve it?”

Such a look slammed into him, scorching his skin, lighting under his flesh like a living flame, throbbing in his sex pressed wanting against the fabric of his leggings. It took all his will to look away, but he conquered that look, this lust. 

The fire died under his skin, deprived of its creator. He strode away like a prince, taking the last word with him (and shouldn’t that stroke triumph down his spine?). His bones stretched proud and straight, his neck high, but his chest rang hollow as a starving dog’s belly.

*

Fingolfin looked up from his work when his study door thrust open and Fingon loped in. 

“Father!” Fingon waved a hair tie about, his hair sailing behind him in a mass of waves and loose curls, thick enough to lose a whole hand within. It stormed down his back in a cloud black as a panther’s pelt. Fingon had inherited Fingolfin’s hair. 

Fingon perched himself on the edge of Fingolfin’s desk and buried his fingers in his hair. He pulled a section over his shoulder, shaking it under his father’s nose. “That beast Aredhel! Look at what she did, Father!” The words came out with a laugh as he displayed the knots. “She braided my hair when I was sleeping, snuck up on me, the little fiend!” He laughed again, sounding delighted by his sister’s sneaky ways when another boy would have been furious at his ‘annoying little sister.’ 

“Will you help me get these knots out?” 

“Of course I will.” Fingolfin abandoned his work without regret. Fingon could have easily asked a servant to help, but he’d come to his father to steal a few hours of his time, and Fingolfin was ready to be stolen when it was one of his children come to kidnap him. 

Fingon’s smile blinded. He hopped down from the desk, whipping out a comb. “Can I sit here?” He sat at Fingolfin’s feet without waiting for his father’s reply. 

Fingolfin spread his knees, and drew Fingon between them. “Pass me the comb.” Fingon held the comb up, and Fingolfin started working on the knot. The knot was so bad it could only have been purposefully inflicted. “Did you do something to annoy your sister?”

Fingon turned his head to shoot big, innocent eyes up at his father. “I would never!”

Fingolfin bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. “Perhaps Aredhel just _imagines_ she has a reason to be annoyed with you.”

Fingon tried to nod with seriousness, but his lips kept twisting up in a smile. “All right!” He threw his hands up, the smile winning out as it always did. Fingon’s face always looked a moment from breaking into a smile. “Aredhel was starting to become a…challenge to be around because she wouldn’t stop teasing me. I don’t mind teasing, but this was just too much, so I may, _may_ , have told her a tad sharply to leave me alone.”

“Hmm.” Fingolfin worked the worst of the knot out. “What was it she could not stop teasing you about?”

Fingon darted a glance up at his father from underneath his lashes. He put on another innocent look. “She was rude enough to come barging in when Rhíloss –you know Lord Turfinn’s daughter? — kissed me. Rhíloss just dragged me into one of the servants’ closets and kissed me, Father, I had nothing to do with it.” 

Fingolfin couldn’t help himself, he started laughing outright. His eyes scrunched shut, and his hand came up to hold his mouth as the laughter poured out.

“It’s not funny, Father! She just _attacked me_ with her mouth!” Fingolfin cracked his eyes open wide enough to see Fingon had climbed to his knees, his hands on Fingolfin’s thighs, and a huge grin on his face as he watched his father succumb to merriment. “It was like being ambushed by a wild boar! One minute I was walking down the hall, poised as you please, and the next my tunic is snagged and I’m yanked into a closet. It’s dark, and then there’s this wet thing kind of eating my mouth like—”

“Stop! Stop!” Fingolfin gasped.

Fingon laughed, a decidedly mischievous sound. “I _may_ have kissed her back then, just to show her how it was done, you see. I wouldn’t want her to go around reminding people of a cross between a boar and a dog’s wet nose.”

“You are unbelievable!” Fingolfin grabbed his laughing son up in a crushing hug. “That poor girl. You better not have told this story to anyone else, young man, not with the way gossip grows wings in this city.”

Fingon rolled his eyes. “Of course I didn’t. You knew it wasn’t true, but some people are just idiots, Father.”

“That they are.” Fingolfin messed his son’s hair. “So, my little boy has grown up and started dragging girls into closets for kisses, has he?”

“Actually the part where she dragged me was true. Oh, and me being the better kisser.” Fingon flashed his father a cheeky grin.

“You are too young to be a good kisser. You are what, twelve?”

“Father!” Fingon squawked, hands slapping Fingolfin on the arm. “I’m _fifteen_!”

“Are you really?” Fingolfin adopted an expression of surprise.

Fingon laughed, shaking his head at his father. “Is your brain going to mush with all the stuffy paperwork you do all day that you forgot your favorite child’s age?”

Fingolfin’s eyebrows shot up, mouth just clamping down on the smile fighting to get loose. “My favorite child? I distinctly remember waking up this morning without a favorite.”

“Well that was this morning before you learned how charming I am, obviously.”

“Obviously. And you forget, this morning I did not know my son was an excellent kisser as well. That changes everything.” Fingolfin darted in and smacked a kiss to the tip of Fingon’s nose.

Fingon’s eyes narrowed. Everything was written in the smile on his face before he revealed his plans to chase Fingolfin’s nose back for a kiss. Fingolfin let his nose be caught, and then regretted it when Fingon’s kiss turned into a nip. 

“What are you, a puppy?”

Fingon widen his eyes and blinked up at his father, sticking his tongue out in a pant. Fingolfin snorted. “Should I be concerned about the development of my son’s maturity when he starts impersonating a dog at fifteen?”

“Father!” Fingon mock fainted against Fingolfin’s leg. Honestly, his son shouldn’t be kissing anyone. Fingolfin adored him, but Fingon was very much still a child. 

“Up you get,” Fingolfin lifted his son to his feet, and stood with him. “It is time for a break. What do you say to a stroll though the gardens before lunch?”

“Let’s go to the stables! I want to show you this new brilliant move I learned. I can ride standing up, even when the horse is at full gallop!”

Fingolfin groaned internally. “Who has been letting you try breaking your neck?”

Fingon rolled his eyes. “You worry too much. I had to give up my spear and bow training because you thought I was getting too ‘reckless.’”

“You were.”

“I was _experimenting_.” Fingon’s brow took on a rare, brooding darkness, mouth naked of smiles. “I know what I’m doing. I’m _good_ at my training. I’m not much good at anything else, not like Turgon, but when it’s my body I need to train, I’m the best. But you don’t understand because you never come to see me practice. You’re too _busy_.”

“Fingon,” Fingolfin snagged his son’s shoulders, turning Fingon to face him. He searched his son’s face, heart struck to the quick to hear such words on his son’s lips. “You have never spoken of this before. I did not know it meant so much to you, or that you compared yourself to your brother and thought yourself wanting.”

Fingon ducked his head, shoulders shrugging. “I figured everyone knew it.”

“Everyone knows nothing of the sort, for it is not true.” Fingolfin pulled Fingon into his arms. “It pains me to hear you speak of yourself with such deprecation. It is true your brother enjoys his studies more, but that does not mean you are not every bit as wonderful and talented as Turgon. Your strengths lie in other areas, some of which you have already discovered for yourself.” 

Fingolfin eased Fingon back to catch a glimpse of his face. Fingon scrubbed hastily at his eyes. “I—” Fingon choked up, and couldn’t get anymore words out.

Fingolfin ran his fingers through Fingon’s cloud of hair. His voice softened, “I was worried for your safety. That was why I forbade you from continuing the training. But I want you to succeed in what you love. I promise, Fingon, I will come see your training. Every day if that is what you need. And as long as I can trust you will not be seriously injured, I will never come between you and something you love again.”

Fingon threw his arms about Fingolfin’s neck, burying his nose in his father’s chest, inhaling in big gulps, fighting down the tears. Fingolfin rubbed Fingon’s back until the shaking faded away. When Fingon pulled back, it was to turn a smile bright as gold on his father.

Fingolfin smoothed down Fingon’s hair, only for the wild waves to spring right back up again in the wake of the weight of his palm. Fingolfin chuckled. “I believe you have a new move to show me that will stop my heart in the watching.”

“It will be good for you. You’ll stop worrying so much, and only worry when there’s something to really get your heart racing for.”

“Do I want to know what that is?”

Fingon tossed him a grin. “Not yet.”

Fingolfin wrapped an arm about his son’s shoulders and steered him to the terrace doors. Fingolfin’s study opened right into a garden, and they took full advantage of the shortcut to the stables. They strolled down the path, gravel crunching under Fingon’s sandals and Fingolfin’s boots, Fingolfin’s arm slung about his son’s neck. 

A line of cherry trees followed them down, branches thick with blossoms hanging low. Fingolfin’s head skimmed the lowest and caught a cluster of blossoms in his hair. The movement upset the branch and more blossoms fluttered down to adorn Fingon’s mass of hair like rubies and pearls. 

Fingon laughed, and titled his chin up, hip adopting an exaggerated swagger. “What do you think, Father? Do I rival Grandmother Indis in beauty?”

“Surpass, my dear.” Fingolfin pinched Fingon’s cheeks lightly. 

Fingon swatted his father’s hand away with another infectious laugh.

Fingolfin’s head came up when he caught a flash of movement. A tall man strode down the path set to bisect their own. Fingolfin caught glimpses of red hair through the thick pines lining the perpendicular path.

The man’s boots set a brisk pace, and he reached the crossroads before them. He turned smartly onto their own path, coming towards them. Fingolfin’s lips parted. He hadn’t seen Fëanor’s eldest since before…it must have been the birth of Curufin, Fëanor’s fifth son. Maedhros had only been a youth then, but he’d been stunning even as a child. Now he rivaled his father in beauty, and Fingolfin never thought he’d meet another Elf to come close to Fëanor’s flawless features.

Maedhros’ steps trailed as he closed the last feet between them. He eyes fixed on Fingon. Fingolfin looked down at his son to find Fingon’s face blooming open like a rose as he smiled up at his cousin. 

“Hello! I haven’t seen you around before, and I know everyone. I’m Fingon.” Fingon slipped from under his father’s arm, and offered a jaunty bow, sweeping back up with a grin. 

Maedhros had a voice exactly the same color and rhythm as his father’s. “Well met, Fingon. I am Maedhros, son of Fëanor.” He offered his own bow back. “I believe we are cousins.” Maedhros’ eyes darted to Fingolfin. “I remember meeting you before, Fingolfin.”

Fingolfin inclined his head. “Indeed. Well met.”

Fingon’s face lit up, so bright his skin could have captured a star and horded its brilliance. “I heard you were coming! And your brother too. I wanted to meet you.”

Maedhros’ gaze lingered in Fingon’s hair adorned with blossoms. His eyes held an intensity that reminded Fingolfin sharply of Fëanor. “Have you?”

Fingon laughed. “Of course I have! You’re my _mysterious_ Fëanorion cousin. No one knows anything about you because you’ve been off having mad adventures on the edges of the world.”

Maedhros’ rich mouth twitched into a slow, sensual smile, teeth flashing like white gems. He had his father’s smile. “Mad adventures? I suppose I have had a few.”

Fingon darted forward to snatch up Maedhros’ hand. Maedhros’ eyes widened as they dropped to the hand holding his. “You have to tell me all about them.”

“Do I?” Maedhros’ mouth crooked up. His height dwarfed Fingon, giving Fingon the true appearance of a child looking up at his adored older brother.

“Yes,” Fingon laced their fingers together. Maedhros did not make an effort to get free of his cousin. “Now I have you, you can’t get away. I have to hear _everything_.” 

Fingolfin feared his son’s exuberance was too much for the young man. Fingon had been known to overwhelm. But Maedhros’ laughed. He had Fëanor’s laughter. It sounded like freedom and confidence, like a soul that had not spent a single seconded tucking itself away from the critical eyes of the world. Maedhros’ hand came up to rest on his cousin’s shoulder, fingers angling to curl a few strands of Fingon wild hair between them. 

Fingon’s hair was a temptation to touch. There was something about its endless waves that made one want to sink their fingers in and see how deep it went and what it felt like. Fingolfin had been subjected to his younger siblings’ curious hands growing up. 

Fingon beamed up at his cousin. “Father and I are going down to the stables. I’m _really_ good on a horse, and he’s coming to watch me. Do you want to come? You can start telling me all about your mad adventures on the way.” Fingon rose on his tip-toes, leaning forward in his eagerness.

Maedhros released Fingon’s shoulder and stepped back. “Yes, I’d like that.”

Fingon grabbed his cousin’s hand again. “Good. Come on then!” He turned back to Fingolfin as he pulled his cousin along. “I want to show Maedhros my archery and spear-work too. Can I, Father?”

Fingolfin chuckled. “As long as Maedhros does not mind.”

“Do you—”

“I do not mind.” Maedhros agreed before Fingon had even gotten the request out.

Fingon grinned. “Have you killed raging bears and fought off the great monsters of tales? Are there really monsters with teeth large as a man’s arm, and beasts with the heads of eagles, and—”

“I am afraid you will be disappointed. I have not seen any monsters.” Maedhros’ mouth curved about a smile, luscious and sincere. So like his father’s. Fëanor would never hold back his amusement, or his rage. “But I did kill a wild boar once.”

Fingon swiveled huge, admiring eyes up at his cousin. “What happened? Was the boar charging you? Were your brothers in danger and you saved them?”

“Give him a chance to breath, Fingon.” Fingolfin reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, but Fingon ducked the hand.

He turned a desperate look at his father so Maedhros couldn’t see, eyes pleading not to be treated like a child in front of the adult cousin he’d already set on hero worshiping. Fingolfin held up his hands, biting back a grin, and gave his son the space to try and impress Maedhros.

Maedhros’ eyes danced as Fingon looked back up at him. Maedhros seemed to genuinely take a liking to Fingon, and Fingolfin found himself taking a liking back. He would give a chance to a young man who didn’t just humor Fingon and pat him on the head, enduring Fingon’s presence but wishing himself elsewhere. 

Fingolfin listened as Maedhros told the tale of the boar slaying. When they reached the practice fields, Fingon nearly stopped Fingolfin’s heart when he not only stood up on the horse’s back, but _jumped_ onto the neighboring horse while it galloped alongside. Maedhros rewarded Fingon with a smile when Fingon’s eyes turned to seek his cousin’s out after an impressive display in archery, spear-throwing (from horseback and foot), and finally wrestling matches with a gaggle of other youths who stripped down to leggings to perform.

Fingon came out the victor in all, and showed-off outrageously, but Fingolfin was so proud of his son he wouldn’t have cared if Fingon strutted over to them like a peacock. Fingon had a bit of a swagger in his walk, head tilted up with confidence as he approached them. Fingolfin caught his son in his arms, whispering how proud he was and how wonderfully Fingon had performed into his ear. When Fingon pulled back he left a covering of oil smeared over Fingolfin’s tunic from the oil he’d used on his upper body before the wrestling match. Fingolfin and Fingon laughed over it together. 

Fingon turned to look up at Maedhros, trying to hide how eager he was to hear if his cousin would praise his skill as well, but failing spectacularly at hiding his hopes.

Maedhros stared at Fingon a moment in that intense way of his. “You were magnificent.”

Fingon dazzled them with a grin, and leaned in to wrap his arms about his cousin’s waist. His head only came up to the middle of Maedhros’ chest, Maedhros eclipsed even Fingolfin’s height, but the arms Fingon wrapped about Maedhros had begun to pick up the muscular of an adult. Maedhros rested his hands on Fingon’s shoulders, and returned Fingon’s exuberant hug with a careful one of his own.


	11. Chapter 11

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 11

Fingolfin snagged a pastry off a passing server’s tray. He examined it, finding it of more interest then what the Keeper of the Keys droned on about. Powdery sugar dusted the crisped edges of the flakey confection. The palace’s Head Baker was a master in her trade. She’d shaped the dough into a rose, powered petals and all. Fingolfin held a work of art in his palm.

By the time Fingolfin licked the residue of sugar from his thumb the Keeper of the Keys had yet to finish gripping over which landowning lords were late on their rent payments to the crown. Gold turned the wheel, but such talk was fit only for council meeting where all present had mentally prepared themselves for its dullness. A garden party celebrating the coming birth of Finarfin’s second child was hardly the place.

He allowed the Keeper of the Keys five more minutes in which he drained his wine glass and his attention wandered shamelessly as he kept a fixed mask of polite interest pinned to his face. Fingolfin was good, but he was not good enough to endure an evening in this man’s company, so he excused himself. He pulled out the right dash of charm and apologies, and wove through the mingling guests towards the flash of red hair he’d caught over by the sawn fountain. 

Paper lanterns glowing like fireflies littered the lawn, and Telperion’s silver caught in the bubbling waterfalls of the fountains. The Noldor had put on their finest, and the garden resembled a tropical glade, bursting with vibrant colors like a toucan’s beak, with enough embroidered jewels to rival a parrot’s wing in magnificence.

Finwë had arranged the paper lanterns, Telerin white-wine, and Telerin musicians in an attempt to make Finarfin feel welcome. It fell flat, leaving the impression of Noldor playing at another’s culture. Those who didn’t care to try their turn at the Shoe Folk’s dances commented on how charming and quant the Teleri were, and reminisced on the summer they’d spent in Alqualondë as a youth.

Fingolfin doubted his father had noticed the way Finarfin took a care not to clench his fists when asked how he enjoyed his time with the fishing-folk and how happy the king and queen must be to have him home again. 

Finarfin had not returned to Tirion since Finwë sent him to foster with Olwë in his fifteenth year. Finarfin had built his life among the people Finarfin and Fingolfin had grown up hearing their mother call inferior in all the ways that made it clear what the Vanyar thought of the Teleri without lowering herself to open scorn. 

Fingolfin had heard nothing of Finarfin staying on in Tirion, despite the assumptions of the Noldor nobles. This was nothing but a courtesy visit. Finarfin had made it perfectly clear he found nothing worth staying for in Tirion. He had, after all, not come home for almost fifteen years. But Fingolfin harbored no bitterness in the thought. If Finarfin should prefer the Teleri to his own people, that was no one’s fault but Finwë’s.

Fingolfin detoured to fetch a fresh glass of wine. He found Maglor near the drink tables surrounded by a pack of be-jeweled ladies with their hair artfully arranged; buns swept up in cages of gold-wire, and curls framed painted faces. They begged Maglor for a love ballet. Fingolfin desperately hoped Fëanor’s second born would not be holding them in thrall tonight. Getting caught in the net of Maglor’s voice was a terrible kind of beauty.

Fingolfin had been utterly undone the first time he heard Maglor sing. His feet had stilled, lips parting, eyes flooded with images Maglor threaded with pure magic into the song. The images were not fully formed scenes, just impressions of beauty, but it was enough to have Fingolfin’s heart twisting and yearning in his chest until he thought it would tear right out of his skin. The glory of that voice painted itself into the backs of his eyelids as he bathed in the womb of Malgor’s lungs. 

There, sitting with his feet up on one of the marble fountains with a harp cradled in his lap, had been Fëanor’s second born. The young man had his hair braided off his face, but it hung in a silky mass of darkness down his back. His dexterous fingers flowed over the harp’s strings, caressing them like a lover’s body. His face tilted down, eyes half-lidded as he lost himself in the music’s creation. The light hit his cheekbones at a flattering angle, and his eyes glittered like pieces of silver. Maglor had his father’s eyes.

Fingolfin’s sex had stiffened, and he’d torn his eyes away. Maglor had too much of his father in him. Looking at him was like watching Fëanor from the corner of the eye. 

Maglor walked in that confident way Fëanor did. His brow would tilt in arrogance just like his father’s. An arrogance born out of authentic superiority, almost innocent in the way it dismissed the idea of feeling inferior to anyone when it came to his craft as a laughable idea. 

Fingolfin kept his distance from Fëanor’s second born after that first encounter that left his body aching, but his heart throbbing empty. It wasn’t Maglor he wanted, but the person he saw too often within him. All the more reason to stay away.

Even as Fingolfin watched –not quite mustering the strength of look away from a face the echo of Fëanor’s—voices drifted from a cluster of court musicians. “…who does he think he is?”

“He’s Eru’s gift to us humble city-dwellers, haven’t you heard?” The speaker’s voice took on an exaggerated squeak, the voice of a young child –or a mouse. “I am Maglor, son of Fëanor, and I’ve been rolling about in the dirt with the dogs all my life and singing my rustic songs to a simple people, but all the country lasses say they’d like a trouble in the hay with me, so I must be the finest singer in the world!” The musicians snickered. 

“Excuse you!” One of Maglor’s admirers puffed up. “That is _Prince Maglor_ you are insulting, you ignorant—” 

Maglor laid a hand on the lady’s arm. “I thank you, but let me speak to them.”

Fingolfin couldn’t smother his curiosity, and circled around the table to follow Maglor as he broke from his admirers to confront the musicians. They watched him come without a shred of fear or shame, gloating in their eyes. They gathered the false courage of friends at their backs.

“You got a problem, country prince?” One of them met Maglor with.

Maglor smiled. The sound of his voice was its own reproach and defense; it transformed every word dropped from his lips into pearls. “You should not gossip behind the backs of others. It is a mark of the smallest mind, and is hurtful. Better to say nothing at all if you have nothing worthy to say.”

Maglor kept smiling as he started to turn away, leaving the musicians in a war between bemusement and offence. Did he actually believe these Elves might take his words to heart and turn over a new leaf? It was sweet. Naïve, but sweet.

At the last moment Maglor turned back, as if something he’d meant to say had slipped his mind but was now found. There were no pearls and nightingales hiding in his voice this time, there was only the terrible beauty of nature’s power unloosed. “And if I ever hear you speaking of my father’s people like that again, you will learn what it is to be on the receiving end of a Fëanorion’s temper. That goes for my father and brothers as well: do not talk about them in that disrespecting manner. In fact, it would go better for you if you do not speak of them at all.” Maglor flashed them a smile, teeth glinting. “You have a good evening, now.”

Well played. He used his kindness as a weapon, and it was a pleasure to watch. Fingolfin took his wine glass and resumed his search for the safer son of Fëanor. Under the concealing fall of his tunic he had not been unaffected, and such a desire could not be indulged. 

Irimë intercepted him before he spotted Maedhros. Color flushed her cheeks into a healthy glow. She slipped her arm through his elbow, and turned a smile up at him. “You have barley spoken three words to me all evening, and I came down from Taniquetil just to see you!”

Fingolfin raised a brow. “It is Finarfin’s wife who announced their child’s upcoming birth, not mine.”

Irimë waved a hand through the air, tossing aside his words. “Oh, you know what I mean! Finarfin wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t come, anyway.” She rolled her eyes. “He never bothered to come home in all these years to see me.”

Fingolfin did not want to speak of that. His gut twisted with his own guilt. Irimë had not once gone to see Finarfin in Alqualondë, not after her marriage to her Vanya husband or before, but Fingolfin had gone seldom enough himself. He turned the conversation away. “How many glasses of wine have you had?”

Her overly-bright eyes widened in a poor play at innocence. “Don’t scold me, Brother. You have no idea what a relief it is to be home again. I felt like celebrating. Come, dance with me,” she tugged on his hand.

“Irimë, stop. You are drunk.”

She laughed, the bold, careless laughter of the inebriated. “I won’t be denied! You have no idea how miserably dull it is up there on that mountain. Here I am finally free of _them_ , those gossiping, self-righteous Vanyar. I am going to enjoy it!”

Guilt had Fingolfin giving in to her. Had she truly been so unhappy in her marriage? She’d agreed to an arranged marriage like him, but he’d heard no complaint in her letters over her situation. A tongue loosened in drink though, and spilled the secrets a sober-mind kept hidden. 

Fingolfin took her into his arms, knowing a moment of relief when the musicians picked a Noldorin dancing song. He had little skill in the liquid steps of the Teleri dances which led dancers in steps more akin to cranes in flight then the safely grounded twirls and dips of the Noldorin court dances.

As he pulled Irimë back from a twirl and caught her again in his arms, he tackled what a part of him did not want to know but could not allow himself to shy away from. “Are you unhappy in your marriage, Sister?” He spoke into her ear, keeping his voice low.

Some of the drunken shine ebbed from her eyes. She readjusted her hold on him into one less sloppy. “My marriage is acceptable.”

“Irimë.”

Her eyes flashed up to his, chin setting. “I speak the truth. It is the Vanyar I cannot stand.” But she shrugged, “There is nothing to be done about it now. I will just have to…” She trailed off, eye caught on something over Fingolfin’s shoulder.

He spun them to get a look. He found nothing but more twirling couples.

“Who is that?”

“Who?” His eyes dropped back to Irimë and followed the line of her fixed gaze. Maglor had taken the dance floor and was proving the sons of Fëanor were not the uncultured, country princes envious mouths wanted to label them. Quite the opposite. “You have not met Fëanor’s sons? No, that is right; you were with Mother in her chambers when Father introduced them tonight.”

“For a moment I thought it was…Fëanor.” Irimë’s voice passed complex as a weaver’s craft from her lips. 

He twirled her again, subtly moving them away from Fëanor’s son. He could only hope Irimë did not take her dislike of Fëanor out on the son, but feared it would come to that. 

Their new corner of the lawn brought them within sight of Finarfin dancing with his wife. Irimë followed Fingolfin’s eye to their brother.

Finarfin looked the picture of a Noldo lord. He’d put aside the flowing robes of the Teleri-court, and dawned the embroidered tunic and jewels of a Noldo. But for his Vanyar coloring, he could have passed for a full-blooded Noldo with the way his face never slipped from its mask of serenity.

“Look at him now,” Irimë said with the undertone of laughter, not a mocking laugh, but the one of an elder sister who knew all his childhood embarrassments. “You would never guess he’d once hidden an urchin in his rooms for a week. Do you remember that? Mother was _furious_ when she discovered him stealing food for the girl. Remember the rat’s nest he made under his bed for her to hide in? You should have heard Mother when she found them!” Irimë laughed, and lightened her voice in imitation of Indis, “Have you no sense in that head of yours? Her poor parents must be frantic with worry! Why can’t you be more like Fingolfin and _think_ for two seconds before you act!”

Fingolfin cringed at that particular memory. Oh, yes, he remembered. He remembered the red rimming Finarfin’s eyes for weeks after as he cried himself to sleep in Fingolfin’s arms, and his own helplessness as all his tricks to draw Finarfin from the sadness failed. “You should not laugh at him. He was miserable when Mother sent her back to her parents. You know how he was: he couldn’t turn away from a creature in need.”

“He cried for a whole day when Mother made him give that mangy tomcat away after it mauled one of the servants!”

Fingolfin frowned. “I remember a number of cats brought home, but never one so wild. He used to smuggle them into his bed to sleep piled on top of him until Mother had had enough and gave them all away.”

“No, there was a mangy tomcat. I remember. Mother used to yell at him to give it baths. She was convinced it had flees.”

Fingolfin gave Irimë a look. “That was a dog.”

Irimë tossed her head. “Dog, cat, hedgehog, what does it matter?”

“You teased him mercilessly over it, the least you could do is remember properly. Do not think I have forgotten how you were always bossing him around?”

“I can’t help it if I knew what I wanted as a child. Besides, it’s what he needed. Mother was proved right. He wouldn’t be caught dead crying over a dog now. He has grown into an admirable Noldo now he’s hardened his heart. Sometimes that’s what people need –hard love.”

Fingolfin didn’t believe that, but it sounded like something Indis would say. His ears heard a sister trying to justify being a bossy little brat in Irimë’s words. Something about Finarfin had brought out the worst in her. She’d seen she had power over him, and used the excuse of ‘I’m older’ to her full advantage.

The song drew to a close, and Fingolfin used the excuse to escape his sister’s company. He found Maedhros in a gaggle of lords and ladies. The lantern light bathed Maedhros in a pool of glowing orange. The light caught in his hair and the emeralds threaded into the copper waves. The hollows under his arched cheekbones were accentuated in the limited lighting. If a sculptor had fashioned the bones of his face from marble, they could not claim higher perfection.

Maedhros’ gaze slid to Fingolfin at his approach, mouth lifting in a smile. The other lords and ladies turned to see who had drawn Maedhros’ eye. They made room for Fingolfin in their circle with eagerness, some with a genuine liking for his company, others for the promise of his ear to spin their troubles and wants into. But Maedhros’ mind ran the same river as his, and he excused himself to meet Fingolfin. 

They set out together on a casual stroll, choosing the fringes of the party. Eavesdroppers could not be entirely eliminated, nor were they free of the threads of conversations drifting to them, but they kept their voices pitched low, opening a pocket of intimacy between them. They passed the customary peasantries, a thrust here, a parry there. Fingolfin found himself enjoying Maedhros’ company as he had since the moment he’d met him with Fingon under the cherry trees.

Fëanor’s son should not be so easy to like, not with how hard Fëanor was to like (but impossible to ignore). Fëanor was arrogant, loud, opinionated, paranoid, and…beautiful. Fingolfin couldn’t stand him. He couldn’t. 

But Maedhros was good down to his bones in a way that was extraordinary, and left Fingolfin wondering where Fëanor had picked Maedhros up as a baby, for Maedhros couldn’t be Fëanor’s son. Not Fëanor with his impatience, tendency to judge everyone around him and find them wanting, and his inability to forgive _anything_.

“I heard a rumor Maglor confessed to the superiority of Tirion culture. He was even said to have admitted finding the society of your father’s people humble.”

“Ah, you heard a rumor. I shall be sure to investigate it to its root. Such things are always worth spending my time on.” Maedhros slid him a half-smile.

Fingolfin returned it. “Do you find it so unlikely then that he could have such an opinion? He is an appreciator of the finniest arts: music, dance, poetry, theater. All these are embraced in Tirion. I have no doubt Fëanor collected the highest minds and hands in the crafts –” 

“And hearts.”

Fingolfin raised a brow. “Debatable. He left the poorest and the most narrow-minded, I will not argue that point with you, but he did not pluck us dry. We have our share of great minds and worthy hearts yet.”

“Many of low birth follow my father: field-hands, headers, brick-makers—”

“Yes, but how many, Maedhros? You have been to the poorest districts in Tirion; you know the numbers of our city’s poor. Now tell me, do the poor among your father’s people equal a similar fraction of the population? I think not.”

Maedhros did not bow out and concede Fingolfin’s point. Fingolfin would have been disappointed if he had. The dance was yet young, and Maedhros a worthy opponent, new to it though he was. “You see rightly: the poor among my father’s people do not weight down upon our society. Yet surely there were as many –if not more—in the poor districts of Tirion who would have snapped up a chance to start a new life? Surely many would have been moved by my father’s words when he spoke before them, for has theirs not been the meanest lot in Valinor? Yet from all appearances there were few who followed him. So I ask you this: is the number of poor among our people a testament to my father’s pride that had him turning such away, or is it a testament to his wisdom of leadership that so few poor _remain_ of those who followed him?”

Fingolfin did not believe Fëanor had done anything revolutionary to eliminate the numbers of poor in his following. It was as Fingolfin said: fewer poor had followed Fëanor then established craftsmen and disillusioned scholars. Fëanor had not turned his nose up at the poor, no; for all his pride Fingolfin did not believe that of him, but Fëanor had not sought them out, nor was it the way of the poor to buy into what Fëanor had been selling. They did not need to break the chains of a society that stifled them. They did not need a purpose for their existence. They needed their bones to stop aching, and clean beds to lay their heads. 

“There will always be the poor, Maedhros. All we can do is see to it they are not ill-used or subjected to a harsher life then their birth allotted them. In Valinor no child’s belly cries out in hunger –though their feet may be blistered from ill-fitted shoes, or no shoes at all, and their parents’ backs bent with hard labor. Starvation, at the least, is not a fear.”

“Does the duty of the privileged end with the prevention of starvation?” Maedhros challenged. “Such a belief is that of a man hording his coin and counting how many treasuries full he has this winter.”

Fingolfin would not be painted with such a brush, or allow this young man who spoke so like his father to see him as one of a dozen other nobles turning his face from his people’s needs. He was not such a man. “Some of the poor will rise up from their birth and into not only comfort, but wealth and influence. We are not a society bound so tightly by class as to eliminate this possibility, and I see the good in every man and woman’s right to rise as high as their hands and minds can carry them. But most poor will live out their lives in poverty. Accepting reality does not mean I smile to see it.” 

“Among my father’s people no one is in want –not for a pair of shoes, or a clean place to rest their head. There is hard labor, and there are those with few material goods, but it is not like in the poor districts of Tirion where poverty is a force like a heel upon the neck, and the very air clogs thick with oppression in the lungs.” Maedhros spoke with the fire of the young. His eyes were bright and fierce. They looked like Fëanor’s, long ago, as he stood before the packed square and challenged the foundations of the Noldor’s society. “Your words speak of your regret, and I believe you, but I have witnessed another world with my own eyes. I know what you see as the impossible is the possible.”

Fingolfin raised a brow at the bold words. “Spoken like a true idealist.” Spoken like Fëanor.

Fingolfin would like to live in such a world, but it was a dream. One only realized when the exact same oppression of poverty Maedhros spoke of was left behind in a city with the poorest of the poor as a prince gathered the hearts clinging to the belief of a better life. Fëanor’s people had the luxury of a dream-world, Fingolfin’s did not. 

Fingolfin wished Fëanor’s people well. Their settlement outside Tirion had been a breeding ground of invention and innovation. They had furthered the Noldor, and all of Valinor, with the works of their minds and hands. They had Fingolfin’s thanks for that, but they were a model Tirion could never reach. Once Maedhros had dwelt longer within the shadow of Tirion’s walls, he would understand. Fingolfin both looked forward to the day Maedhros became a seasoned player, and mourned the loss of Maedhros’ wide-eyed idealism.

“You have distracted me from my purpose.” Fingolfin judged from the color mellowed in Maedhros’ cheeks that he would not be one of those players who could not bear to have a discussion put aside until the opposition had conceded his point. Good. The ability to let things go would carry Maedhros far in the game. “Rumors aside, do you believe Tirion has stimulated your brother’s mind as the society of your father’s people could not? Now answer honestly, Maedhros.”

Maedhros slid him a glance. Fingolfin took a sip of his wine. “I cannot speak for him.” 

Maedhros neatly side-stepped an outright answer. It stirred Fingolfin’s curiosity. He had not believed Maglor preferred Tirion culture to that of Fëanor’s people’s, but Maedhros’ evasiveness laid open the possibility. Or perhaps Maedhros had mealy never discussed it with Maglor. 

“And yourself?”

Maedhros did not hesitate with his reply this time. “I find it the opposite. In Tirion, otherwise intelligent people are obliged to speak nonsense for the sake of pandering and politics. The sciences and philosophy are limited to guild discussions and gatherings of Masters. There is little contemplation of any matters higher than the day’s events outside such settings. And given my education, I find the discussions of the Masters of the city inferior to those I participated in as a youth.”

Fingolfin raised a brow. “I was under the impression you enjoyed a well executed political dance.”

Maedhros ducked under a low-hanging branch as their ramble took them into a tree’s shade. Telperion’s silver dappled the grass, leaving patches of darkness. The lantern’s light did not reach the cool dampness under the hanging branches, but fell short in tongues of warm orange, transformed as it filtered through the lantern’s paper screens. 

“I have found it enjoyable.” Maedhros answered like rolling a good wine over the tongue, slow and savoring. “But while it can bring out the cleverness in a man, it can also bring out the foulness. And the sycophant. These games of words challenge me, but they do not leaving me with the….cleanliness of feeling and uplifting of soul a gift to a child in want can afford. The reward of such a gift –a single smile—is a powerful addict, while a game of politics won is an indulgence of my own vanity and ego.”

Fingolfin looked at his nephew, finding a crease pressed between Maedhros’ brows and his mouth downturned. Maedhros enjoyed the dance, but did not want to enjoy it. 

He liked this young man. He hardly knew Maedhros, but their conversations left him alive, challenged, and fulfilled as he had not felt since Fëanor stopped coming to Tirion. He wanted to take Maedhros under his wing. Well, as far under as Maedhros would allow himself to slip, just the brush of feathers really. He wanted to call Maedhros ally and opponent and friend.

Fingolfin wanted to show Maedhros how to survive at court, as Fingolfin himself had been taught. He would teach Maedhros the power of sarcasm, wordplay, and stepping softly but trailing a web behind his footsteps. Maedhros would excelled, a natural, thriving upon the thrill of the games as Fingolfin too thrived. But Maedhros would take the art of masks and make them his own. Already Fingolfin could see Maedhros preferred a level of forthrightness he’d inherited from his father, but wore it without Fëanor’s antagonistic and arrogant undertones that inevitably set listeners’ teeth on edge (or had them falling in love).

“You are only playing without a purpose as yet. You have a gift, Maedhros. Do not squander it because the working of it is not ‘clean’ in the eyes of non-players. Find your reason to play, and you will find more than your ego stroked when you claim a victory. You have a good heart and strong beliefs; now set your mind to discovering how you can give a hundred children a reason to smile. In the dance you are afforded the privilege of power at the game’s end. How we use that power is the determination of a man’s character –not in the playing of the game. Do you find me a foul man?”

Maedhros gave him a sharp glance. “No. I do not.”

“Yet I dance the dance.” Fingolfin touched his nephew’s arm. “You see? It is all in the intent.”

Maedhros’ mouth lifted in a wicked smile that sauntered beauty into the world. “You will wish you had never encouraged me to continue playing in a few years. I do not believe we see eye-to-eye on a number of issues.”

Fingolfin grinned. “I could never regret a worthy opponent and a game well-played. There will be some issues I have gained a valuable ally on. I shall try to remember that if you defeat me.”

“When.” Maedhros could make a body faint with a smile like that.

“Don’t get cocky.”

Maedhros laughed.

They strolled in companionable silence for a moment longer. Fingolfin spotted Finarfin, and led Maedhros over. Finarfin’s wife was not on his arm. Indis had whisked her away to make the rounds of the most important Noldor ladies. There was no bump yet to betray the pregnancy, but Finrod could be spotted dashing about with his cousins, golden hair a banner of light behind him, and provided the conversation starter his coming brother or sister did not as yet.

Fingolfin would be sorry to see the child go. In the short days of Finarfin’s stay, Finrod charmed Turgon into getting into mischief with him. Not only that, but Fingolfin had caught them playing a prank on Aredhel; Turgon never teased his sister. But Aredhel took it all in good fun, and Fingolfin found the three of them rolling with laughter over the mess they’d made of Aredhel’s party dress.

The conversation of Finarfin’s cluster of Elves reached them long before the Elves noted their approach.

The tail-end of Lord Aglaron’s comment floated down on the gentle breeze along with the scent of honeysuckle. “…my cousin ran off to join him, you know –his father almost banished his name from the Family Book for it—he told me a little of what Fëanor gets up to with those followers of his. Did you know he eats with the common laborers and even dresses like them? There is no sense of nobility or culture with those people.”

His wife picked up where he left off. Her lips stretched rose-pink with artificial color. “I heard Fëanor’s eldest has actually been spotted visiting the commoners’ schools. And not only there, but the Butcher’s District!” She laughed at the absurdity of it, and some in the gathering joined her. Most did not. 

Ignoring the creasing brows, she carried on. “Our kind cannot walk through the Great Square without being hassled– you would not believe the quality of fabrics some backwaters traders have tried to pressure me into purchasing!—Maedhros cannot really have ventured into such a place as the Butcher’s District. Why, I think it’s the most shocking thing I’ve heard all season!” 

Those with no sense of the long game, or even simple respect for their princes, laughed openly with her. She and her husband were the kind of courtiers who gave them all a bad name. “Well, I can believe a great deal of a son of Fëanor,” she conceded, smiling still as if it were all one grand joke to speak so of the crown prince, and at a public garden party no less! “I remember when Fëanor used to go traipsing about in the gutters, what a laugh that was!”

Lord Rivalton, one of Fingolfin’s off-and-on supports depending on the needs of the lord’s own game, said, “It was not a laughing matter, but as you are still in the blush of youth, I will forgive you for making light of your elders’ troubled times. One must always forgive a beautiful lady,” he winked.

She made a flapping gesture at him. “Oh stop it, you flirt. I have nearly as many years as you. Your flattering won’t get you near my husband’s purse strings.” But her cheeks pinked, and Rivalton succeeded in his aim of shutting her up. 

Lord Haewon caught sight of Fingolfin and Maedhros first. He straightened out of his slouch like a guard caught sleeping on his post. He was young yet, newcome to court, and still at sea in its shifting tides. His father preferred his country estate near his silver mines over a mansion in Tirion. The young man’s shoulders went back so fast his wine sloshed over the rim of the glass, staining his tunic sleeve. Eyes followed the path of his wide, staring ones.

Fingolfin wasn’t the only eye gauging Maedhros’ reaction out of its corner. But Maedhros’ face showed nothing. Fingolfin had not expected restraint. 

Maedhros had laughed with freedom, and snapped back when a lord insulted his father only a handful of weeks ago. He carried his heart in his palm, just like his father had, though his temper was slower to stir. But he learned quickly, already he was able to weather an insult without flaring his hood like a cobra. 

When Maehdros did not address the insult, the tension passed like a breath gone out of a swimmer, all believing the slight forgotten. Maedhros would ever forget it. Lord Aglaron and his wife had been marked.

Finarfin greeted them first. “Brother, Nephew,” he nodded, anything but cool poise hidden deep. 

Fingolfin had shared a handful of conversations with his brother since Finarfin’s return, but not one of them had delved deeper than a clipper over the ocean’s breast. He told himself relationships took time to build again, but Finarfin would not be staying to build anything.

“Brother.” Fingolfin said, Maedhros nodding his own greeting. 

Fingolfin could have inquired after Eäwen’s health, but he had done that this morning at breakfast. He could have commented on Finarfin looking in good health himself, but what a trite thing to say! Even worse would be mentioning the party’s décor. If Finarfin were a stranger, Fingolfin would have known how to navigate these waters, but Finarfin was a stranger who was supposed to be a brother. 

Finarfin’s letters had been scarce, even from the first, and Fingolfin’s visits petered out over the years, duty and his own family holding him here. 

Fingolfin wanted to ask: Did it feel like Father gave you away? He wanted to ask: Did you start a hundred letters only to throw them into the fire as I did? He wanted to ask: Are you happy?

The words wouldn’t pass his lips even in private, and never in public. Maybe it was guilt holding them back. He should have visited more. But Fingon was conceived a few months after Finwë sent Finarfin away, and the pregnancy was hard. Then Fingon was born and he was such a tinny thing with a healthy pair of lungs Fingolfin adorned from the first. He hadn’t wanted to miss even a week, and would not risk his son upon even the gentle road to Alqualondë. Time spilled away from him. Their letters grew stiffer, the spaces of years piling into all the blank spaces between words passed from the ease of brothers into the formality of strangers.

“How do you find Tirion, Prince Maedhros?” Lord Rivalton asked. “You had not visited since your childhood, is that correct?”

“It is.” Maedhros lifted a wine glass from a servant slipping like a shadow to lords and ladies’ shoulders. “I find it much as I expected.”

“Oh? And how is that?”

“Diverse.”

“Diverse?” Lady Uirebel took up the questioning. “Few Vanyar call our great city home, and fewer Teleri. What diversity you have found must be on account of the lack of it among your father’s people –not that having a following of pure Noldor should be taken as an insult, Prince Maedhros.”

“I did not speak of ethnicity.” Maedhros took a sip from his wine while the listeners hung upon his words, caught in the natural magnetism of his presence. 

Every turn of his wrist, arch of brow, and pattern of speech held them enthralled. It was like watching an actor upon the stage. His performance was a work of art, if it even was a performance. Fëanor had not performed. His charisma was in his blood. Fëanor was the force pulling all into orbit around him, the center of the universe. They fell before his power and either hated or loved him for it. He rewarded them with a careless mapping of their trajectories, so consumed with himself that he did not look up to watch the planets crashing into each other about him in their desperate rush to get closer.

No, that was not true. Those were the words of Indis and every mouth who’d ever looked upon Fëanor with hatred or jealousy and worked themselves under Fingolfin’s skin until –almost—they seemed his own thoughts. Fëanor was many things, but a careless destroyer of lives was not one of them.

Maedhros released them from their breathless thralldom. “I spoke of the diversity of people found in the city–of minds most specifically.”

“How do you mean?” Lady Uirebel’s brows drew together, but even in confusion she did not look away from the mesmerizing young prince before her.

“I have found a certain mold of mind in Tirion that is rarely seen among my father’s people.” Maedhros turned to Aglaron and his short-sighted wife on his arm who had spoken with such carless flippancy before, “But let us ask Lord Aglaron, for he knows all about such minds.”

Aglaron frowned. “What is this I know of?”

“The minds of fools.” Maedhros took a slow sip of his wine as Aglaron caught up and his face blotched red. 

Fingolfin struggled not to laugh, bringing his wine glass up to hide the smile he could not suppress. Others among the gathered lords and ladies had to cover their laughter with coughs. They applauded Maedhros in their hearts for putting Aglaron in his place, but there was a reason none of them had shut him and his wife up. And that reason was power and wealth.

Maedhros set his wine down calm-as-you-please, only a little smirk on the corner of his mouth betraying him. He pivoted on the toe of his boot, the movement elegant as a dancer’s, and swept away, hair swinging with satisfaction about his hips.

“If you will excuse me.” Fingolfin should stay and distance himself from Maedhros for the remainder of the evening. It would be the politically correct choice to make. But he’d been making the politically correct choices for twenty years, and just this once he wanted to make the imprudent one.

Fingolfin followed after Maedhros, a spring in his step that had been missing for far too long.

He’d been shuffled into politics more then he’d chosen it. Whatever he might have wanted for his life had been put on hold because Finwë needed his help and Fëanor was off serving Fëanor, as Fëanor ever did. Fingolfin had picked up the duties of crown prince, but there was no resentment in his heart against Fëanor –not for this—for he’d found within it that something he’d been searching for. It was that something _he_ excelled at over Fëanor, something _he_ accomplished as easily as breathing.

But he’d not realized until Maedhros swept into Tirion with his razor-sharp mind and young-man’s dreams that he’d been in need of a friend. He wanted Maedhros as that friend. They would dance the dance, parry and thrust, stand at opposing sides of the playing field and sometimes shoulder-to-shoulder. But they would be friends because no matter where they stood upon the playing field they would never have to fear a knife in the back or a secret wielded like a weapon.

Fingolfin caught up to Maedhros. Maedhros did not look so smug with distance between himself and those who had insulted his father so grossly. His eyes flashed, and jaw worked. Fingolfin walked beside him in silence until Maedhros ground out: “They are insufferable.”

“Some. Yes.” Fingolfin beckoned with a curl of his fingers, and Maedhros followed him into the privacy of the first ring of a hedge maze. 

Maedhros allowed himself to be led as Fëanor never would have. Finding the outer-ring of the maze empty, Fingolfin turned to Maedhros, taking in the flare of his nostrils and luminous silver eyes that looked so like his father’s in this moment they stole Fingolfin’s breath. 

He shook off the comparison, and spoke frankly, as he would to a friend. “Many can be ignorant, greedy, power-hungry, and self-centered to a sickening degree, other lords and ladies are perfectly decent human beings. But you are more intelligence, charismatic, and handsome then the lot of them. Use it to your advantage. They will try to take advantage of you because of your youth, inexperience, and idealistic views.”

Maedhros opened his mouth, but Fingolfin held up a hand. “Please, listen to me. You do not see your views as idealistic, but the other courtiers will.” Maedhros did not argue that point; Fingolfin spoke the truth. “Today you made a powerful enemy in Aglaron. He deserved what you said, and worse, but his father is the lord of one of the High Houses and sits on the Council of Lords. They are also one of the richest Houses of the Noldor.”

“I do not regret what I said. Nor will I.”

Fingolfin studied the proud face. “Then own that. Never show any sign of cantering to him in the future, never seek him out as your ally even at your most desperate. Treat him as nothing but the fool you have named him. You can work that to your advantage, and indeed, I think it the best course for you, but think twice next time for there are enough in Aglaron’s mold to leave you with few allies and many enemies if you name them all for what they are.”

Maedhros mouth twitched. “Is this sound advice from a son of Indis? What would my father say if he could see it?”

Fingolfin laughed. “He would accuse me of trying to poison your mind against him, or some such paranoid accusation.”

Maedhros sobered. “He does not trust you.”

Fingolfin thought of a foolish young man seated at Finwë’s right-hand, leaning with the ease of familiar intimacy into the king’s ear, and the face of a brother flashing with betrayal before the rage stormed over it. 

“He has his reasons.” Fingolfin admitted softly, but did not outright confess to having made mistakes in the past. Not to one of Fëanor’s sons.

Maedhros’ eyes combed his face. “Are you trying to put me in your pocket? I warn you: a son of Fëanor will never fit.”

Fingolfin’s mouth curved wryly. “Impossible as it may seem, I would like to call you ally and not a toady.” 

He would like to call Maedhros friend one day too, but a friendship between their two Houses would not be built in a day. Fingon and Maedhros could share friendship because Fingon was a child, and guileless. Fingolfin’s motives would be scrutinized, and his actions and words studied down to the last turn of phrase –just as he would study Maedhros back.

“Not impossible,” Maedhros said. “But unwise.”

“Probably.”

“Hmm.” Maedhros looked into the honesty Fingolfin reveled in his eyes, and the smile on his mouth that knew he was making a dangerous choice in the long game but taking it anyway because he _wanted_ this. “I shall think on your offer.” 

Maedhros’ sleeve brushed Fingolfin’s arm as he passed, returning to the party. It was the best Fingolfin could hope for given the circumstances –it had not been a no.


	12. Chapter 12

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 12

Fingolfin strode down the corridor, leaving his mother’s solar behind. When he could get away with it, he sent back Indis’ invitations to luncheons and afternoon teas with excuses of pressing duties. Tonight his excuses failed him. She determined to have him, and cut off his usual escapes with pre-emptive inquires. He resigned himself to an evening in her company. He would have tried harder to avoid her if he’d known he’d be subject to an evening of passive-aggressive comments and looks dripping her special-brand of disappointment that used to make him feel so small.

She had grand plans for him. She did not speak of her ambitions in so many words, but he was no child ignorant of the hints she dropped. His childhood had been overshadowed by her expectations, and Father’s unattainable smiles of pride (the kind that made Finwë’s whole face glow; the kind he only had when Fëanor’s name rolled off his tongue). 

Fingolfin was everything Indis intended he be, and yet it was not enough. Now she dreamed higher. She would see him king of not only the Noldor, but in Ingwë’s place as High King of the Elves. 

It was not impossible that Ingwë should step down; he spent more time at the Valar’s feet then ruling his people, and Fingolfin, as his nephew, was his closest male relative. But Indis’ dreams were mealy that –dreams. 

Fingolfin could not deny, in his heart of hearts, a certain inch to test his metal against the kingship of the Noldor. If it was offered, he would accept, but it would never be offered. Finwë could not step down, for the crown would fall to Fëanor, and Fëanor would be miserable as king. So it was better to banished even secret thoughts of how he might fair had he been born eldest.

Fingolfin had not been living up to his mother’s expectations these last months, and she had made him feel it. Or she had tried to. He was not a child anymore, and her disappointment slid off his shoulders like water over stones.

He listened to her criticisms of his ‘cavalier’ behavior with ‘that son of Fëanor’ with a face unmoved. He knew he had not behaved like a shrewd player of the game at the Festival of Colors, or Lady Uirebel’s society party, or the dozen other engagements in which he’d monopolized Maedhros’ company. They spent hours at each other’s side, sharing inside jokes and passing covert smiles as they battled over who could more creatively insult all the guests they both secretly loathed. 

It was not the behavior of an ambitious prince. It was the harvest of too many lonely years. A person whose company he enjoyed more than any other in the room –in the city—had been dropped in his lap, and he hadn’t realized how empty his life had become before Maedhros entered it. 

Well, Fingolfin was free of his mother’s criticisms now, and he knew just who he wanted to bemoan an evening suffered in her company with: Maedhros. He searched for him now, using the excuse of Lord Pelloch’s latest political treatise for his visit. 

Their debates were as invigorating as their banter. Maedhros held a wide range of differing opinions that echoed Fëanor’s, the words wearing cloaks Fëanor’s never had, but always circling back towards Fëanor’s ambitions. Fingolfin enjoyed clashing wits with Maedhros for Maedhros never failed to work his way to an elegant solution to a tangled problem, even if it wasn’t Fingolfin’s solution.

The corridor swept open on one side, rows of columns opening to the Garden of a Thousand Stars. The bracing tension in Fingolfin’s muscles relaxed when no hypnotizing melody slipped from the garden to net the hearts and minds of every passing Elf. One could never be too careful with the guarding of their mind in the haunts of Fëanor’s second born.

Fingolfin reached the door to Maedhros’ study and knocked. 

The sound of a scuffle came muffled through the door. “Just a moment!” Footsteps, the door thrown open, and the light of a well-fed hearth washed over Fingolfin. It was not Maedhros who greeted him, but Maglor. 

Maglor leaned heavily against the door, head cocked as he dragged eyes the exact same shade as Fëanor’s over Fingolfin. A frown inched its way over his face, and he blinked at Fingolfin lazily. If it was anyone else, Fingolfin would have taken the expression for slowness of mind, but Maglor had never been slow on the uptake. The high color of Malgor’s cheeks and overly-bright eyes betrayed the alcohol in his system. 

“Can I help you?” His beautiful voice slurred the words, jostling them about like pieces of a puzzle not quite fitting together in his mouth.

Fingolfin learned forward, peeking around Malgor’s frame which he now suspected used the door for balance. He caught a glimpse of Maedhros sprawled out on a couch before the hearth. An empty wine bottle and another well on its way to joining the first in that state sat on the low table before the couch.

His eyes returned to Maglor, now a few inches closer. Shadows and flickering light played off the angles and planes in a face possessing too many of Fëanor’s features for Fingolfin to resist another long look.

The firelight gathered in the wealth of Maglor’s hair, shifting in it like the secret depths of the sea. Maglor’s mouth curled with confidence –arrogance—wearing an expression Fingolfin had seen upon Fëanor’s so often. Maglor’s eyes not only had Fëanor’s coloring, they had his shape. It could have been Fëanor’s eyes smirking at him, and when Maglor turned those eyes away to arch a brow back at Maedhros, dismissing Fingolfin, it struck Fingolfin like the aftertaste of Fëanor’s heady scent lingering in a room long after its owner’s departure, as if even the air wanted to savor the touch of fire.

Fingolfin’s belly flipped. He clamped down on the lust. That mouth, so like Fëanor’s, those eyes, a perfect match. Oh how Fingolfin _hated_ that Fëanor dominated his every sexual desire. Fingolfin did not dwell on the truth that he’d only agreed to marry Anairë for the dark shade of her hair, and grey eyes that _almost_ shone silver in the light of Telperion. He certainly did not think about how many times he found himself biting his tongue on a name that should not have been anywhere near his mouth when he climaxed inside her.

Maedhros’ long, shifting body drew Fingolfin’s gaze away from the shadow of Fëanor. Maedhros rolled into a seated position, flipping loose hair back from his face. “Fingolfin,” Maedhros gave him a cool nod, face unreadable despite its high flush.

“Nephew.”

Maedhros watched him another moment, before his mouth tipped up. “Care to join us for a drink?” A pale, elegant hand waved at a vacant chair before the hearth.

Fingolfin hesitated as Maglor stumbled back over to the couches, throwing himself down in a dramatic flourish beside his brother, his dark head finding Maedhros’ lap. For all Fingolfin’s friendship with Maedhros, that friendship had never extended into such an intimate setting. The understanding of allies had formed between them, as had the simple pleasure of two men enjoying each other company, but Fëanor hung over them, holding Maedhros back from falling too deeply into friendship with one his father so despised.

But Fingolfin wanted to fall into that seat beside Maedhros. He wanted to accept a glass of wine and feel his head grow light as he lost himself in conversation with this intelligent young man he’d grown to admire. He wanted to drink with Maedhros until the early hours of the morning, until their conversations grew philosophical and they asked each other the meaning of their existence and argued the finer points of such and such a theory, lying side by side on the hearth rug because they’d lost the ability to stay vertical. But most, he wanted to wake up in the morning with a pounding head and the taste of something foul in his mouth, and be able to share a grimace with Maedhros and the laughter afterwards, and know that no barrier stood between them. He wanted that intimacy of friendship where the walls came down.

Fingolfin let the door close behind him and crossed to the offered chair, seizing the unvoiced invitation towards deeper intimacy.

“Would you fetch our guest another glass, my dear?” Maedhros turned his mouth into Maglor’s cheek. That cheek looked soft and smooth as a dove’s breast. 

Fingolfin’s fingers twitched. He clenched his jaw and breathed deeply until he suppressed the lust. How much easier this would all be without Maglor’s silver eyes watching him as if Fëanor saw out of them, that mouth smirking like it read Fingolfin’s secret designs upon Maedhros’ friendship and determined to hold its acquisition just out of Fingolfin’s reach.

Maglor rolled his eyes, but after a groused word, he rose. Maglor caught Fingolfin starting, and a fine brow ached. Those eyes that _did things_ to Fingolfin held curiously as they studied him. Fingolfin scrambled for control. If he could hide his lust from Fëanor who wrecked him with a mere glance, he could conceal it from the son.

Maglor passed close to Fingolfin’s body as he ambled around the end of the couch. His body curved about Fingolfin’s shoulder, and Fingolfin’s lunges expanded with the scent of him. 

He did not smell like his father. It was enough to gather the reigns of control and not turn to watch Maglor’s body as it walked away. Fingolfin had examined that body from afar far too often since his nephews’ coming to Tirion. It was not Fëanor, but the lines ran blurred in his head when light pooled in sleek black hair, a smirking mouth, and the strut of a prince.

Maglor returned with a glass, and Maedhros poured a generous amount of the blood-red wine before handing it over. Fingolfin took it with a word of thanks, careful not to let his eyes stray to Maglor as the young man stretched himself out along Maedhros’ side again.

“So,” Maedhros began, easing back on the couch, one hand keeping a loose hold on the underbelly of his wine glass, the other falling idly into his brother’s hair. He smoothed his fingers through the dark mane like petting the sleek coat of a cat. “What brought you to my door on this fine eve, Fingolfin?”

“Nothing pressing,” Fingolfin waved a lazy hand through the air, not about to admit he’d conjured an excuse to come visit his favorite person in the city (outside his children). “I believe the more interesting question is what brought this about.” He gestured to the wine. “And so early in the evening too.”

Maedhros slid Maglor a sly glance. A flushed kissed a delicate line into Maglor’s cheeks. “Oh,” Maedhros breezed, a teasing half-smile lifting his mouth. “A little interrogation method of mine. I have found nothing loosens my brother’s tongue like a bit of good wine.”

“Interrogation?” Fingolfin arched a brow, taking a careful sip of wine as he fought against staring at the pretty picture Maglor made, spread out and glowing upon the couch. If it wasn’t Fëanor Fingolfin saw in Maglor, he would have been more disturbed by the lust still purring through his blood. It wasn’t his nephew he really wanted, though Maglor had grown into quite the beauty.

“Just a little matter between brothers,” Maedhros had mercy on Maglor and did not reveal what hiked that blush into his cheeks.

“I see.” A flash of envy stuck Fingolfin. He did not usually fall prey to that vise, but seeing the two brothers speaking a hundred words in the crook of a mouth, and a slow, secret brushing of eyes, left him aching for what had never been his. But, in truth, what he wanted from Fëanor was not the bond of brotherhood these two young men shared, but so much more. 

Fingolfin strangled the envy threatening to burn against his breastbone. Fëanor and he had nothing in common with Maedhros and Maglor. There had never been a way… He had to kill these longings. It served no purpose. Fëanor and he had never been a possibility. It was just a thousand dreams, each more fantastical than the last.

The conversation turned to matters at court, skirting gossip by focusing on solid events and issues they hoped to conquer in the next Council of Lords. They polished off what remained of the wine bottle, and fetched a new one. With three drinkers, and none of them nursing their glasses, they soon moved on to a yet another fresh bottle. Fingolfin’s limbs loosened in a lazy sprawl, and laughter settled in his breast, quick and easy in its outpouring. 

Maglor kept silent as he watched them fall into politics, only his eyes betraying his attention. Maehdros attempted to draw his brother into their debates from time to time, but Maglor remained reticence. For all Malgor’s pose and eloquence when faced with criticism from the elder musicians, envious of this green thing putting them all to shame, he carried the air of his tender years in the privacy of his brother’s territory. But as the number of wine glasses he consumed increased, he shed his shyness toward venturing an opinion.

Maglor opened up at last into full bloom when Maedhros recounted the bald facts of an unfavorable encounter he’d had with one of the lords, sharing his certainty that this lord would prove an enemy on the playing field. 

“Maedhros, you bore, you told it all wrong!” Maglor wrinkled his nose at his brother’s stripped-down retelling, a precise rendition without an ounce of flair. Maedhros could hold a room enthralled, but he did so with calculated need. Economy and cool logic were his favored style.

Maglor shook his head, despairing of his brother’s talent for storytelling, and launched into his own dramatic re-telling. Maglor had a gift. It dwelt not only in the beauty of his voice that captured the audience. He picked up the facial expressions, tone of voice, and body carriage of the characters as he acted out the scene. He was so convincing, even if Fingolfin had not known beforehand which lords and ladies were involved, he would have guessed from Maglor’s acting abilities alone. By the end of the rendition, Fingolfin had an ache in his side from laughing, and he’d had to put his glass down lest he spill it down the front of his tunic.

Maglor sat back, a smug smile on his mouth, as he observed the results. Maedhros slung an arm over his brother’s shoulders, still chuckling, and pulled him back down on the couch beside him.

“Did you tell that story to your mystery woman, little brother?” Maedhros teased, and the smugness seeped out of Maglor’s smile as the blush crept back in. But he did not give into his embarrassment. He sniffed, wearing the face of an unbothered prince.

Maedhros, eyes shining, turned to Fingolfin. “Maglor has had his first kiss, but refuses to tell who with. I will have it out of him before the night is through.”

Maglor tilted his chin up, looking suitably haughty. “So you say. But you underestimate my ability to resist you. As you always do.” 

Maedhros laughed, and poked Maglor under the ribs. “I underestimate nothing. I know exactly how much young men enjoy boasting of their first conquests. You are no different in this than others.”

Maglor looked down his nose at Maedhros, mouth fighting a grin. “Just because you keep company with base, single-minded fellows, does not mean I am cut from the same cloth. I am the sole of discretion. A perfect gentlemen. A bastion of—”

“A young buck a glass of wine away from spilling his deepest secrets!” Maedhros’ teeth flashed a wicked smile as he poked Maglor again, wiggling his fingers over his brother’s ribs. Maglor squirmed away, swatting at the hand, holding back a giggle and onto his dignity by the skin of his teeth.

“Give me a name and I will grant you mercy!” Maedhros kept up his assault.

“Stop it, you lout!” 

“Tell me who has dared lay lips upon your innocent ones? Who was it who claimed the first fruit of your—”

“Maedhros!” A definite whine worked itself into the word, and Maedhros relented, laughing.

Fingolfin covered his mouth, hiding his smile, before he dropped his hand. What need had he to hide it here, in the company of friends? His smile deepened to mischief, and he felt lightheaded with freedom. He could not remember the last time he felt so at ease, so young. 

He dared to tease his nephew, this shadow of Fëanor, alongside Maedhros. “And did you find your first foray into the delights of the flesh satisfactory, Nephew?”

Maglor’s eyes flickered to him. He paused, studying Fingolfin, before his smile widened and he leaned back with easy grace, arching a brow. “Now that would be telling.” They laughed, and the sound settled against Fingolfin’s bones like the warmth of the fire at his back.

Maglor turned a glance on his brother, a calculating look. Maedhros raised his own brow back in anticipation. “Tell us, Maedhros.” Maglor drew out his brother’s name, settling into his game. “What was _your_ first kiss like?

Maedhros smiled a sly smile, but his eyes shied away from meeting his brother’s. “Shall we make a deal? The details of your first for mine?”

“I knew it!” Maglor jumped up from the couch, a flush of victory and alcohol coloring his cheeks. “You have never been kissed, have you?”

Maedhros’ fingers circled the rim of his wine glass. He examined his brother, eyes hooding, and the corner of his mouth lifting in a practiced smirk. “What did I tell you? You have as insatiable an appetite for sex as the next young buck.” He leaned forward, setting his wine glass aside and arching a brow. “Digging for all the titillating details are you?”

Maglor crossed his arms, nothing bashful in the look he met his brother’s eyes with. “You are one to talk. You will not let it rest until I spill all the details.”

Maedhros’ mouth twisted in a smile as he leaned back into the couch, seemingly perfectly at ease with the direction the conversation had turned, but Fingolfin had spent enough time with him to sense the underlying tension in the air around him. Maedhros was still learning how to play the game well enough to cover even the boldest lie.

Fingolfin did not wonder at Maedhros’ embarrassment. For an Elf of Maedhros’ age, it was unusual for him to be completely untouched. It was no surprise he wanted to hide the fact his little brother had more experience now than him. They were both young enough to have a young man’s delicate pride where these matters were concerned.

“You cannot hide it from me,” Maglor pressed. “I know you too well.”

Maedhros shrugged, picking up nonchalance now the game was up. There was no point sinking his heels in when he played against a brother who knew him down to the roots of himself, and every little telling tick besides. “Are you waiting for me to admit it? Very well. You know more of the mysterious of sex then I, Brother-mine.”

Maglor shook his head, letting out a put-upon sigh. “Stop being ridiculous. I did not want you to admit it so I could crow over you, but so we could see about fixing it!”

Maedhros snorted. “Do you have someone picked out for me to experiment with?”

Maglor shrugged. “Not exactly. I think…” Here he stumbled for the first time, losing his confidence, eyes flitting away from Maedhros. “We should get this taken care of tonight. Now, really. I mean,” he stumbled on as Maedhros’ eyebrows crept up. “You can hardly go about experimenting with just anyone. There will be misunderstandings, and broken hearts no matter what you say. Someone would get their hopes up. They would not be able to help it. You being…well, you.”

Maedhros laughed, shaking his head at his brother. “I appreciate the offered assistance, but,” he flicked an apologetic glance over at Fingolfin. “While I enjoy your company, Fingolfin, it would be rather disturbing to kiss you.” Maedhros’ voice held steady even as the faintest blush lit up his cheekbones. 

Fingolfin raised his glass to Maedhros needing no explanation. 

Maglor made a little noise in the back of his throat, and wobbled, almost tipping over when he took a step towards his brother. Maedhros laughed, and sprang up from the couch to gather his flushed brother in his arms. Maglor melted into the hold. “You are ridiculously dunk! Promise me you will not ever tell Father what an irresponsible brother I have been tonight, hmm?”

“I promise.” Maglor swallowed, eyes locked on Maedhros’ face. “But I will do my duty as a good brother and help you out in your…situation.”

“My situation?” Maedhros had only a moment to frown before Maglor gathered his courage and surged up to plant a swift kiss on Maedhros’ mouth. 

Maedhros pulled away with a laugh. “Drunk.” He grinned, leaning down to smack a kiss into Maglor’s cheek. He peppered a few more kisses over Maglor’s face, one even taking Maglor’s lips chastely, before he pulled back to gaze fondly down at his swaying brother. 

Maglor looked dazed and, yes, drunk. Maedhros’ own eyes were not as clear and sharp a silver as usual. “It is off to bed with you, my dear. It is well we have no engagements tomorrow, or you would be in trouble. If you wake with a splitting skull you have my permission to curse me to the Halls and back, for it was I who plied you with alcohol.”

“No,” Maglor shook his head, still leaning heavily against Maedhros’ body. “I’m not tired.”

Maedhros chuckled, casting a glance back at Fingolfin. “You will have to excuse me, Fingolfin, I am calling it a night for us. It was a pleasure.”

Fingolfin found his disappointment that the evening had not ending quite as he’d envisioned easy to swallow. It was enough that the brothers had allowed him to see as much of their private selves as they had.

“Tomorrow then,” Fingolfin nodded as he stood, setting his drained wine glass aside. 

Fingolfin parted from them at the door, Maedhros steering Maglor towards their rooms. No heaviness planted in Fingolfin’s heart as they disappeared around a corner. A new comfort hard grown between them, and he did not have to question whether that ease of friendship would extend into the marrow and the days following. He knew it would.


	13. Chapter 13

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 13

“Fëanor!” Fëanor turned at Nerdanel’s call, hands dropping from stringing the colored crystal lights into the tree’s branches. She hadn’t spotted him yet, and paused to ask Mistress Falariel and the youths carrying out a table between them if they’d seen her husband.

“Nerdanel!” Fëanor drew her eye as his boots skipped the last few rungs of the ladder to drop into the grass. He pulled off the handkerchief holding his hair back, tossing it down on the grass beside coils of lights waiting to be strung up. Tomorrow night the meadow would glow like a school of florescent fish.

Nerdanel wiped sticky-bun residue off on her apron as she approached. The cooks needed all capable hands if tomorrow’s feast would be ready to feed thousands. Fëanor had left an open invitation to any of his people who wished to join the celebrations for Celegorm’s seventieth Birthday Day, all he’d required they bring was their own tableware and a chair, unless they didn’t mind the grass as their seat and a leaf as their plate.

“Fëanor, I have spoken with my father.” Nerdanel’s strong brow and deep-set eyes allowed her face to pick up the firmness of stone when she readied herself to dig her heels in. “He has asked permission to lead Celegorm in a blessing for Aulë tomorrow and the traditional drink offering. As it has been two years since Celegorm –any of our sons—participated in Aulë’s Honoring, I have given him my leave—”

“No.” Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest, and she planted her hands on her hips. “None of my sons will be giving offerings to any of the Valar. And they do not need to beg a Vala for blessings.”

“You would have me crawl back to my father and tell him my word isn’t good enough because my husband commands me otherwise?” Nerdanel didn’t wait for an answer, but spun, skirt swirling about her ankles, and marched off. 

Fëanor grabbed another string of lights and climbed the ladder. He busied his hands draping the lights with an artisan’s eye through the boughs, but his mind ran back to Nerdanel like an itch needing a scratch. When he’d finished securing the lights, he jumped down and sought his wife out. 

He dodged the open clearing where Maedhros organized the tables’ set up. The meadow resembled a market with the mismatched set of tables in varying styles and woods. Each loaned table had been marked to prevent confusion during the clean-up; some of the owner-marks were as old as Maedhros, carved during those first gatherings under the stars when Fëanor burned so brightly with the fervor of youth he something thought he would burn himself up before he’d finished shaking the world to its senses.

He made for the fire-pits where boars and haunches of venison would begin their slow roast in the dewy hours of the morning in preparation for the afternoon feast. The fires were smoking. Sticks of red pepper, sausage, and pineapple sizzled over grills, prepared to fill the bellies of the workers. Nerdanel glazed hot griddle cakes at one of the cook-tables pulled out into the open air. 

She looked up at his coming, but did not dismiss herself from the work and draw away for privacy. Fëanor didn’t care if she didn’t. “Your father should have minded his own business. I made myself perfectly clear the last time he asked. It is not my design to give you embarrassment, but I will not yield in this. My sons will worship no Vala.”

Nerdanel turned on him, not bothering to lower her voice for the ears of the women working beside her, even as Fëanor had not. “ _Our_ sons. Whom I have as much say in the upbringing of as you. It seems to have slipped your mind, Fëanor, but _I_ am a follower of Aulë!”

“You can worship as you please. If you chose to squander your time in such things, that is your choice. But I will not have my sons believing the Valar are worthy of worship anymore then a random Elf they met on the side of the road!”

“Oh, so now you so graciously ‘allow’ me to Honor who I see fit?”

“That is not what I meant, and you know it!”

“That is what is sounded like.” Nerdanel gave him her shoulder, and dipped her brush in the sugary glaze.

Fëanor made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “The answer is still no.” He flung himself away, stalking off. 

Nerdanel’s voice called after him, but he did not dignify her attempt to get the last word in with a response. “It is not worship, it is Rites of Honor. There is a difference!”

He passed Maglor seated at one of the newly set-up tables. Along with a collection of flowers and laurel boughs spread across the table, laid the twins. Amras stuffed a pansy into his mouth.

Maglor looked up as Fëanor veered off-course towards him. His dexterous fingers never stilled in their weaving. A flower crown took shape in his hands. At the tables around him other hands were similarly occupied. “Maglor, go fetch a spread for the twins to play on.”

Maglor flicked a glance at the twins. Amras chopped on his flower-head, and Amrod crawled dangerously close to the table’s ledge. Maglor’s cheeks picked up color. His mind must have been wandering far down the paths of stars, the paths of creation. 

“Yes, Father.” He hurried off to correct his error, and Fëanor scooped Amrod up before he took a tumble. The pansy wouldn’t hurt Amras, so he left his son to explore its taste.

Maglor returned with one of the gaily colored cloths that would cover the mismatched tables tomorrow. He spread it out on the grass, and Fëanor deposited the twins into its safe heart. The arrangement would improve with toys to occupy the toddler’s hands. 

“I am sorry, Father. I should have kept a closer eye on them.”

Fëanor put his arm about his son, pulling him close to drop his nose into Maglor’s hair and draw in a breath of his scent. How he’d missed his boys. “When Maedhros was about the twins’ age, he climbed out of the play-pin I kept him in when I worked in my workshop. I still do not know how he managed to get out, he must be part monkey. The first I knew of his adventure was when he started wailing behind me. He’d used one of my jewel-cutting tools as a toy and sliced a gash in his little palm, all the way to the bone. My heart nearly stopped in my chest.”

Maglor titled his head back, grinning. “Did Mother ever find out?”

Fëanor snorted. “It was rather hard to hide a cut that size from her. But you can be sure I tried!”

Maglor laughed, Fëanor joining in. 

“Now back to your party crowns,” Fëanor let his son escape his arms with reluctance. But the mirrored loss he found on Malgor’s face soothed him. 

He wasn’t ready to depart Maglor’s company after his son’s long separation in the city, though, and sat beside him for a time. They made a stack of flower-crowns for the women that threatened to topple in a strong breeze, and another of laurel-crowns for the men. Fëanor took the privilege of threading red juniper berries through one of the laurel-crowns. This one would rest upon Celegorm’s head tomorrow.

Nerdanel found them still seated together. Seeing the look on his mother’s face, and the flash of anger across Fëanor’s, Maglor sighed. “Can you at least not shout in front of the twins?”

Guilt twisted Fëanor’s gut. He stood and led Nerdanel away after a quick kiss and apology to Maglor. Nerdanel followed without complaint, her own anger cooled at the sight of their sons.

When they had drawn a safe distance away, Nerdanel crossed her arms over her chest. “This is important to me, Fëanor. I have allowed you to put aside the ways of my father’s people, _my ways_ , these last few years. But I have had enough. I want my father to lead Celegorm in a blessing and offering tomorrow. It is the way I was raised, and what I believe. If you are allowed to lead our sons in your own believes –or lack thereof—then I have the right to lead them in mine.”

“You did. When they were young.” Fëanor would not bow. “I said nothing against it –though I did not agree. But _I_ have had enough. The Valar do not deserve worship or special honors, and I am sick of how our people have been made to—”

“Don’t you dare turn this into a social issue! This is about our sons, not the children of ever parent in Valinor!”

“The issues are connected—”

Nerdanel threw up her hands with a strangled scream. “I only care about seven children at this moment, Fëanor. _My children_.”

Fëanor’s jaw clenched. The anger grew thick in his lungs. “My answer is no, and it is not changing.”

“Well, my answer is yes!” Her mouth set, and Fëanor’s eyes narrowed to slits. 

“I will be informing your father of my decision.”

“And I will be telling him of my wishes,” she threw back. 

Resentment curled on the tip of his tongue. “He had best not pressure Celegorm into anything.”

“And you had best not threaten my father in that high-handed way of yours.”

They stared at each other, neither yielding an inch.

Nerdanel broke the snapping moment with a twist of her hips. She walked away, back a plank against him. Fëanor’s teeth ached from the violence of his clenching. 

No son of his would spill even a drop of wine in offering to a Vala. He had said nothing against her teaching their sons of her love for Aulë, but Mahtan overreached to think Fëanor would allow one of his sons to participate in a Rite Honoring the Valar. He had never allowed it before. If it were a prayer or blessing in the Valar’s name over his sons he might have swallowed the sharp, acidic taste back, but not a Rite a step outside worship.

The blood in his veins cooled when he spied Curufin dashing around a tree trunk, keeping to the edge of the clearing, and casting furtive glances back over his shoulder. He had a load of sweet-cakes piled high in his arms.

Fëanor grinned, and followed his little thief to the source. Curufin let him straight as a loosed arrow to his brothers. He’d plopped down on the grass beside them, passed around his stolen goods, and sunk his teeth into the spoils by the time they noticed Fëanor stepping around the massive girth of their selected hiding spot.

Curufin looked up, cheeks stuffed to bursting, lips glistening with the sugar glaze, and eyes huge. Caranthir tipped his chin up, fingers curled about the evidence, and a flush creeping into the skin of his freckled cheeks. Celegorm did not bother looking guilty. He grinned, and tore a bite out of his sweet-cake. He grinned as he chewed, and said in a cheery voice, “Something we can help you with, Father? We were just sitting down to enjoy the fruits of a hard day of labor, care to join us?”

Fëanor should give them a scolding for stealing. He might if he remembered later, but for now Celegorm’s unrepentant grin had given him an idea. “Come with me, Celegorm.” He kept his face stern, voice not giving anything away.

Celegorm popped the last of his sweet-cake into his mouth and hopped up, not the least fearful. Caranthir and Curufin exchanged worried glances. As Celegorm sauntered ahead, Fëanor tossed a wink back at his boys. They grinned back.

“Do I really have to ask if that was your idea?” Fëanor fell into step with Celegorm.

Celegorm flashed a dimpled smile. “I have to keep their strength up for tomorrow. You never know, Curufin might enter the log-wrestling contest.”

Fëanor laughed. Curufin was eleven, twelve next month, and slight for his age. His opponent would toss him into the mud with one hand.

“And Caranthir needs his energy for dancing. What kind of older brother would I be if he mustered up the courage to ask a girl to dance a jig with him, but became so breathless he couldn’t impress her with his suave tongue?”

Caranthir had shown zero interest in the opposite sex, or any sex, and Celegorm knew it. And Caranthir would have welcomed an excuse not to speak to a dancing partner he viewed more in the light of an opponent or annoyance then something to charm. At fifteen, Caranthir would much prefer a horse to a girl, and the peace of solitude to a kiss.

“Listen, Celegorm,” Fëanor slung an arm about Celegorm’s shoulders. Celegorm had the trim waist and lean limbs of a runner. He would be seventeen tomorrow but still fit inside the curve of Fëanor’s arm-span. Celegorm turned his sparkling green eyes up to his father’s. “Your grandfather Mahtan has asked to lead you through a blessing and drink offering to Aulë. Your mother and I have not been able to settle the matter between us, but you are almost a man now, and old enough to make your own choices on whether or not you wish to Honor the Valar. So we will leave the decision up to you.”

Nerdanel wouldn’t be able to argue with this neat solution, though she wouldn’t like it. Celegorm was already wrinkling his nose at the idea of the Rites. Fëanor grinned to himself, and held Celegorm closer. That’s his boy.

*

Fëanor leaned back contently in his chair, nursing a glass of wine. At his feet the twins babbled to each other in their baby-talk, only a few words comprehensible. He’d spread a blanket out on the grass with their favorite toys, and they were content to stay within the boundary of the blanket’s edges –for the moment.

His gaze fell on Nerdanel’s back, turned against him like a fortress. She chatted with the circle of fellow craftswoman formed around her. She had yet to speak to him today. The loss of her company was worth Celegorm’s freedom from performing the Honor Rites. Fëanor would make up with her tonight.

“Is this a Vanyarin vintage?” Lision examined his wine, feet up on the table where he sat across from Fëanor, ankles crossed and boots dirtying the white table cloth.

“Only the finest for my son’s Birthing Day celebrations.” Fëanor draped an arm over his chair’s back, at ease in the heart of his people.

His gaze turned to find Celegorm in the crowd. Celegorm’s cheeks had attained the high flush of excessive wine consumption, and his eyes were bright. Maglor had his arm thrown about his little brother’s shoulders, and even from this distance, the music of his voice hummed like a sweet aroma across the senses of every Elf in the meadow. 

Maglor had performed for them earlier in the afternoon, voice as peerless as ever. No king’s court had been blessed with a voice more beautiful. He would be begged into singing many more times before the day was worn through. Not that it needed much pleading to draw Maglor into a song. But flattery and excessive degrees of admiration would receive only a subtly mocking song if anything at all. Maglor loved to be complemented, but only by those he respected the compliments of. 

Lision’s daughter ran up, arms full of Lision’s infant son. “Mother says you have to take the baby now and stop being ‘a good for nothing sluggard.’”

Lision snorted. “Give Himrandir here.” He retrieved his son from his daughter’s arms. “Off with you now, go play with your friends.”

“Put him down with the twins,” Fëanor offered the twins’ blanket and toys. Himrandir was a year the twins’ junior, but their toys would amuse him well enough.

“You, Fëanor, are a god!” Lision laughed as he deposited his son on the blanket. “If he starts crying for a change, I’m giving him back to his mother.”

Fëanor laughed. “You are unbelievable.”

Lision tossed him a wink, and lifted his arms above his head in a stretch, slouching back into his chair. He cast a lazy eye out over the party, “We all missed the young lords when they were off in the city. It’s good to have them back.”

Fëanor soaked in the sight of Maedhros and Maglor mingling with his people, home, right where they belonged. “They have asked to go back in a few weeks.”

Lision slid him a glance. “Will you let them?”

Fëanor’s eyes dropped to the golden wine in his glass. He didn’t want to. He never wanted them parted from his side again. He wanted them all to himself, wanted their love all for himself. But to force them into his arms when their legs itched for space, for the adventures of youth, would be to lose them. 

“Yes. They have my permission to return.”

His eyes ran over all his boys. Curufin and Caranthir stuck to each other’s sides, thick as thieves, as they ever were. They’d commandeered one of the round tables scattered through the meadow, and had their heads bent together over something they hid up their sleeves whenever someone drew too close. 

Celegorm teased Maglor shamelessly and loudly in a circle of their friends. Their arms were slug about each other’s necks, and both showed signs of over-consumption, but Maglor laughed along with all the jokes speculating on his prowess in the bedchamber and even the ones calling that prowess into question. He shoved Celegorm off him with a laugh more beautiful than the ocean’s song when Celegorm made comparisons to such and such an animal’s matting habits.

Maedhros had drawn away into the shade of one of the towering oaks edging the meadow. He leaned against the tree’s trunk, standing so close to Fingolfin’s eldest their shoulders brushed. The boy had his face turned up to Maedhros,’ eyes the exact shade of blue as his father’s alight as he hung upon Maedhros’ words.

Fëanor sipped his wine, watching them. Maedhros had come to him in private to ask if Fingolfin’s son could visit from Tirion for Celegorm’s Birthing Day celebration. Celegorm assured his father he did not care one way of the other if a city-born cousin trailed about after Maedhros, so Fëanor gave his assent. 

“Excuse me, my friend.” Fëanor rose from the table, abandoning his wine glass, and made his way towards the tree shadow holding his eldest. He didn’t take his eyes off them as he approached. 

Fingon laughed at something Maedhros said, mouth stretching wide and full of open mirth. Maedhros laughed with him, a low chuckle, eyes never leaving the boy’s face as the joy washed Fingon’s face in its glow. Fëanor approved of the boy’s openness; pleased he’d not taken after Fingolfin and so many of the other lords of their people in the suppression of emotions.

The tree’s shade took Fëanor into its cool heart, and Maedhros and Fingon looked over at his approach. The joy wiped off Fingon’s face, and he shifted under Fëanor’s appraisal, darting glances up at Maedhros.

“Father.” Maedhros’ eyes released Fingon’s face long enough to send Fëanor a smile, but then slid back to the boy.

“My son.” Fëanor closed the distance between them to slip his arm through Maedhros.’ He leaned his shoulder against his son’s, close enough the soft wisps of Maedhros loose waves of hair brushed against his face, and the familiar scent of his son’s skin hit him. Maedhros’ fingers tangled about his, and he darted another glance at his father, silver eyes meeting eyes of the exact same shade, before his eyes went right back to the boy.

Fëanor turned to look at the boy who had so thoroughly captured his eldest’s attention. “You are Fingolfin’s eldest.”

“Yes. Uncle.” Fingon’s eyes met Maedhros,’ a question scrawled all over his face, but determination as well. For a boy short of his majority, he did not lack boldness.

Fëanor raised a brow. “Fëanor will do.” 

The boy’s brow creased, narrowed eyes meeting Fëanor’s. Fëanor held the boy’s eyes until Fingon lowered them.

“I hear you and my son struck up quite the friendship in Tirion.”

The boy’s chin lifted. “Yes. We’re best friends and always will be. No matter what anyone says against it.”

Fëanor’s mouth quirked. “Oh? Has someone been giving you trouble over your friendship?” The boy blinked, mouth opening and closing, but no words coming out. Fëanor’s smirk deepened, his fingers tightening about his son’s. “If anyone should give you trouble over it, let me know and I will put them in their place. I do not allow anyone to come between my son and his happiness.” 

Fëanor leaned in and bushed his lips over the curve of Maedhros’ cheekbone. As he pulled away he caught his son’s sly glance back at him, a crooked smile on his mouth. Fëanor smirked back. “I will leave you two to enjoy yourselves. Maedhros, come find me when your friend goes home.”

“Yes, Father.” 

With that Fëanor left them in the oak’s shade. He caught Fingon’s whisper to Maedhros as he drew away: “Does that mean he’s not going to try and forbid us from seeing each other?”

“I told you he would not.”

“But everyone said—”

“Those people do not know the first thing about my father. He loves us more then he loves anything else in the world. Certainly more than his pride. Even more than the memory of our grandmother.”

Fëanor’s chest tightened, heart fluttering and swelling. He’d been afraid of what Tirion would do to his sons. He had many enemies there, and many others who would approach his sons from the angle of ‘wanting what was best for your father.’ He’d been afraid his sons would slowly be turned against him. That they would start to see with eyes finding the many places Fëanor fell short, as even Finwë saw him now (maybe had always seen him, for had his father not sought other, better sons to replace him with?). If his sons looked long enough with those eyes, Fëanor’s love would stop being enough to keep them here, with him. Or his love would be _too much_ , and they would feel stifled, and rush to get out from under it.

But Maedhros’ eyes had not changed. He still saw right into the heart of Fëanor, and loved what he saw.

Fëanor watched Maedhros and Fingolfin’s boy through the rest of the afternoon until Finwë took the boy home, back to Tirion. Fingolfin had not been invited to Celegorm’s Birthing Day celebration, nor come to escort his son down from the city. Which was just as well, Fëanor had no desire to force politeness for the sake of the occasion. He’d not seen Fingolfin since that day Fingolfin tried to play games with him, making him think, for just one moment, that there might be something more, something he’d missed, something of the little boy he’d lov—

But there had been nothing. Just a man playing games for his own ends, whatever those ends might be. Fëanor did not care to explore the shadows of motives Fingolfin had left behind him, like a cat’s trail in the dust. Fëanor didn’t play games with politicians bloated on the lure of power.

Maedhros barley took his eyes off Fingolfin’s boy all afternoon, even when the boy left his side to greet other friends. When they stood together, Maedhros would lean in slightly towards the boy and bestow little touches upon him: his arm, his shoulder, his hair.

The smile Maedhros shone on the boy was special. Beauty rested in its curves, and happiness sent his whole face dazzling. Fëanor had never seen Maedhros this radiant. Maedhros was in love. It was worn in his eyes whenever he looked at the boy, cradling him within them.

As for the boy, Fëanor watched him too. Fingolfin’s boy genuinely enjoyed Maedhros’ company, and hung upon Maedhros’ words when they were together, but his eyes did not seek Maedhros out when they parted as Maedhros’ did. He did not lean into Maedhros and touch him back with hands passing secrets and promises between them. But the boy was young yet, he couldn’t be more then seventeen for he’d been born some months after Celegorm. It was for the best –for now—that the boy not return Maedhros’ infatuation and let those desires remain platonic.

The celebrations wound down and the guests trickled home, not a great distance for the majority, as most were from among Fëanor’s followers. Fëanor and Nerdanel carried the sleeping twins up to bed and tucked them in, kissing them goodnight. Fëanor went on to kiss Curufin and Caranthir abed as well. 

No one had seen Celegorm and Maglor for the last few hours of the celebrations, so he went in search of them. He found them in the stables fast asleep in one of the stalls, wrapped in each other’s arms, their horses only half-saddled. He shook his head, thankful they’d been unable to finish saddling their horses for what would have been a wild and dangerous ride.

Celegorm had a happy little smile on his face as he nuzzled into Maglor’s neck like one of his hounds seeking a scratch behind its ears. Maglor’s hair had begun to unravel from its braids, and now wore straw like jewels.

Fëanor grinned as he covered them with a spare blanket. No more wine for these two for the rest of the month.

Fëanor went to his eldest’s bedroom last. He only just remembered to knock. Maedhros had had a few things to say about his father’s habit of walking into his sons’ rooms well into their youth like they were still young children. Fëanor hadn’t started knocking at the twins, Curufin, or Caranthir’s doors yet (though Maglor was already throwing things at his father for walking in without knocking by Caranthir’s age). Celegorm had never had an issue with the lack of privacy, even when Fëanor walked in on him dressing. Celegorm would just laugh and stroll into his bathing room with a tossed comment over his shoulder that Fëanor would have to wait on his pleasure for his return.

Maedhros called an enter, and Fëanor found his son seated on the bed, combing out his wet hair. The water had turned the waves to curls, and the candlelight caught in the strands, making them shine like the light sliding off a polished copper surface.

Maedhros looked up as Fëanor entered. “Yes, Father?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” He smiled and came to sit beside Maedhros on the bed. He watched Maedhros work the comb through his hair for a moment. 

Maedhros let the silence lay, flicking glances at his father and little smiles. Then he said, “It is good to be home again. I missed you. I know we came home for visits, but never this long. It was not the same.”

“Yes.” Fëanor reached up and stroked the back of Maedhros’ skull, fingers sinking into the wet curls. “I missed you as well, my little fox.”

Maedhros laughed at the childish nickname. He set his comb aside, and drew his legs up on the bed to sit cross-legged facing Fëanor. “So what did you wish to speak of?”

Fëanor’s hand slipped down his son’s shoulder and arm to rest in Maedhros’ palm, picking up his hand to tangle their fingers together. “I love you, you know this?”

Maedhros’ mouth lifted in a soft smile. “Yes, Father. I have never doubted it.”

Fëanor’s free hand came up to stroke Maedhros’ cheek. “You have fallen in love.”

Maedhros stiffened, the smile sliding off, and eyes darting away. He licked his lips. “You know?”

“Yes, it was in the way you looked at him.” 

Maedhros winced. “I had not thought it so obvious. In Tirion I am more careful. I suppose being home made me careless. I am sorry, Father—” 

Fëanor’s fingers stilled on Maedhros’ cheek, and dipped down to cup the angle of his son’s jaw and draw his eyes up again. “That boy is the most fortunate in all Arda to have received your heart. You can love whoever you want. Anyone who tells you differently is not worth your time.”

Maedhros eyes held his, lips parted. “You really do not care? I know how such desires are looked upon. I did not doubt you would still love me, but…I feared you would only be accepting because I am your son.”

Fëanor’s fingers tightened on his son’s face. He had kept his silence far too long. “Throw that fear aside, it will never hold even a kernel of truth. Even if I did not desire males just as you do, I would love you regardless.”

Maedhros’ eyes widened. “You? But I have heard nothing, not even a rumor. I never suspected you were like me.”

Fëanor’s mouth twitched into a wry smile. “Well, having seven sons to my name has certainly cut most rumors down before they could take seed. But there are few who know, just your mother and grandfather from my own mouth. And I have not had any _indiscretions_ to plant the seeds.”

Maedhros leaned closer, eyes bright and curious. “Never?”

“I told your mother where my desires lay before we married. It would not have been right to lie. We entered our marriage as a partnership, certain agreements drawn up between us before we wed. There was someone I desired at the time, and your mother understood that I would make him mine. I did not tell her who it was I planned to pursue, but she understood there was someone. But as that particular desire did not bear fruit, and no other drew my eye as he had, I remained loyal to your mother.”

“Who was it? I cannot imagine anyone refusing you.” Maedhros’ cheeks picked up a blush.

Fëanor laughed. “Oh, I image there are quite a number who would. I am not well liked by the majority of Valinor, you know.”

Maedhros shook his head, smiling. “Father, sometimes you can be an idiot. Whether the person can stand your beliefs or personality for long would not matter.”

Fëanor smiled back, the skin about his eyes crinkling with the strength of it. “True. Regardless, I no longer desire him as I once did. He changed. And not for the better.”

Maehdros’ smile fell, eyes gathering sorrow. “I am sorry. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Fëanor waved the words away, though inside a part of him still twisted whenever he saw Fingolfin, half with longing for what once was, half with fury at how far Fingolfin had sunk from what he could have been. “Tell me about Fingolfin’s boy.”

Maedhros’ face lit up like a star. “I love him.”

“I can see that,” Fëanor teased.

Maedhros swatted Fëanor’s shoulder, but couldn’t stop glowing. Fëanor laughed at the besotted look on his son’s face, but it was a kind sound, and his fingers tightened about his son’s hand. Fingolfin’s boy had better love his son back if he knew what was good for him. Fëanor would never forgive him if he broke Maedhros’ heart.

The light in Maedhros’ face dimmed. “But Fingon is only seventeen. It seems such a terribly long time I have to wait.”

Fëanor brought his son’s hand up for a kiss. “It will be a challenge, but it is not so long. I am proud of you for resolving to wait, not that I thought for a moment you would not. Not you. If anyone in Valinor would do the right thing though it meant denying themselves their greatest desire, it would be you, dearheart.”

Maedhros closed the distance between them for an embrace, holding his father close. “I fear you think me without flaw, Father.” He whispered. “And I fear to fall from such a height. For one day you will see I am not.”

“I know you are not flawless, yet you are perfect in my eyes, all your brothers are. There is no fall, my son, for there is no pedestal. Just a father’s love, from which you can never fall out of, for I would follow you into whatever darkness you became entangled in to fetch you home again.”

Maedhros’ breath turned shaky, and his arms tightened almost to pain about his father. Fëanor held his son back just as tightly, for this was everything he ever wanted: his sons clinging back.

Eventually Maedhros withdrew, but not so far Fëanor’s knees stopped brushing his. Maedhros sighed, as weighty as it was a release. “It is a burden –hiding what I feel for Fingon—but it is one I must bear. I know that.”

Fëanor followed his son in a sigh, leaning back and casting his eyes away, out the window through which Telperion’s silver light slipped in with a vision of the stars. “When I was your age, I was determined to tell the world of my desires.”

“That would have been disastrous!”

“Maybe.” Fëanor looked back at his son. “Maybe it would have changed everything though. Maybe you could kiss your love in the Great Square when he comes of age and not have to fear being dragged before the Valar as a ‘deviant,’ and risk banishment.”

“What stopped you?” Maehdros breathed, eyes searching his father’s face.

“My father. He begged me to hold my silence, and I did. I never meant to hold it for so long, but…” Fëanor looked down at his hand holding his son’s. “Overtime I saw it was not only I who would be hurt if my enemies –and I had many even then—took the matter of my preferences up before the Valar. I could be hauled before them on charges of perverted leanings and banished. I would not put anyone in such a position of power over me.”

Fëanor looked into Maedhros’ quietly watching eyes. “Sometimes I wonder though. I wonder what could have been if I had taken the other path. If I had stood up. If others among the leaders of our people who shared our desires had stood up. If we had rallied together and spoken out, would we now live in a society where my sons were free to love whoever they wanted openly?”

Maedhros squeezed his hand. “I believe you chose the only viable course. There are too many ‘what if’s’ in that scenario.”

Fëanor’s mouth turned up in a smile. “I know, and more so now in recent years than ever before. I did not understand then as I do now: the Valar would have done anything in their power to derail such a societal change, as they would have any of the changes I proposed back then. They do not _want_ the Noldor to live in freedom. Not until the Noldor are a sovereign nation again, with no higher authority then our king, will the time be ripe for such change. For now we must free ourselves.”

Fëanor left Maedhros with an embrace and a kiss. He followed the long corridor of his sons’ rooms, and into the next. His fingers paused upon the latch of the door to his and Nerdanel’s chambers. The warm glow of candlelight spilled from under the crack. She had not retired, but he had not expected her too.

They had made a point, ever since their first vicious argument when Maedhros was a newborn and they were both exhausted after weeks of being woken up at all hours in the night, that they would not let the hour of the Mingling pass with anger still burning in their breasts. They had promised to always make up and end the day sitting side-by-side in the light of the Mingling, fingers linked together as they had chosen to link their lives in a partnership they’d both determined would be glorious.

Fëanor could not pinpoint the argument that broke that tradition. He only knew that they had long ceased finding each when the Mingling hour bathed the world in breathless beauty. Now it was no uncommon thing for the Mingling to come and go with chests still tight and hot with the words they’d spoken. The rift widened between them year by year so that it seemed, now, their fingers would never link with strength as they once had.

Fëanor went in and found Nerdanel at her desk, neat piles of sketches stacked around her. She had her hair down, all the braids unwound, and she’d not pulled on a dressing gown over her nightdress. The window was propped over to coax in a night breeze and carry out the dry heat of summer.

She did not look up as he came to stand behind her. He settled his hands on her shoulders, bare skin meeting his palms where one shoulder of her nightdress slipped down. With the touch of firmness she liked, he kneaded her shoulders.

“Stop. I am not going to forgive you because you offer me a palm-full of kindness.”

He did not stop, but gentled his touch, caressing the side of her neck. “I will not apologize for my actions. They were the right ones. But I do regret that they hurt you. That was not my intent.”

She shook him off, back going hard and straight as she turned to face him. “You always have to get your way. You don’t care if you walk over everyone else’s desires as long as yours are met.”

Fëanor drew back a step, but did not allow her to see the pain her accusation caused him. How could she, who had been deep into his heart, think him so callous and self-serving? “You accuse me of selfishly forcing my will on you because I would not be swayed from the path I knew to be right?”

She stood, meeting him on her feet. “Always you do this, Fëanor. And I have grown weary of it. I have asked you to respect what I believe, but you respect nothing unless it is your own way. We entered a partnership when we married, promising compromise as well as joined strength, but I am the only none who has made compromises. You do ever as you wish, and say you are sorry after, but there are only so many times I can hear it until it wears thin!”

“I have made compromises for you. Do not try to sweep them away as if they are nothing!” Fëanor’s voice rose, the anger surging up. “And I have never once stood in your way in any matters outside my sons. Have I even once discouraged you from your own ambitions or blocked your achievement of them? Have I even once pressured you into accepting something outside your will whether it be in your craft or fulfilling the ‘duties’ of a wife in home or bed?”

“Oh, so now I should thank you for being a decent human being in these matters, and for not pressuring me into gratifying your every sexual desire?”

“Do not twist my words!”

The color rode high on her face, and Fëanor’s ears pounded with the pulse of his blood. Nerdanel sighed, a heaviness in the sound that spoke more sharply to Fëanor’s heart then any words of anger. He exhausted her.

“I do not have the energy to deal with this today.”

Well he did not have the patience to deal with her today! He said stiffly, “I will leave you to your bed then, Madam,” and spun on his heel. She said nothing to call him back from leaving, but he had not expected it.

He left the house, and plunged down a silver-lit path through the woods behind the meadow still scattered with the remnants of the celebrations. Crickets chirped their greetings, owls hooted, and the reflective eyes of night-stalkers flashed at him from the thick undergrowth. 

He walked until the pressure built up behind his lungs eased, and his head cleared. When his skin stretched tight upon the wrath (or fear) roaring in his veins, he used to run, or scream, sometimes it came out in shattered glass. Now he walked, strides eating up the ground, and jaw clenched tight. The fire didn’t terrify him as it did as a child. He knew its shape upon his tongue, and its heat under his skin, making his hands shake. The fear did not overwhelm him and keep him sleepless at night, though sometimes he still crept into his sons’ room to brush back their hair and kiss their brows, needing to feel the pulse of their beating hearts under his fingertips and know they were here, with him.

All his boys were home tonight. The deep fears slumbered.

Fëanor collapsed into the grassy bank of a splashing brook. He lay down on his back, and took the measure of the stars. He knew their names and paths. He had stood upon the edge of the world, at the Gates of the Encircling Seas where mysterious unpeeled their shadowy cloaks and space bent and shifted like the sands under a tide. The stars had soared passed, close enough to taste the tails of their journeys, and giants of gas that bared their secret natures to his throw-open mind.

When Fëanor looked up at the stars now, he saw in the back of his eyelids the memory of their naked natures, but curiosity could never be sated, and a thousand questions had been answered to bloom a thousand more.

A doe with her spindly-legged foal nosed the grass on the opposite bank. Fëanor lay downwind, and she led her little one across, picking her way through the rocky bottom of the stream. The foal grew distracted by a waving water plant, dipping its nose in to nip at it. The doe’s ears flicked, and she turned to butt the foal’s hind to get a move on. The pair disappeared into the trees.

Fëanor finally acknowledged the pesky arousal that even a cooled head and a lie by the stream had not abated. He was not in the mood tonight, but it had been a night too many since he took himself in hand.

He did not think of Nerdanel as he unlaced his leggings. A woman had never been where his thoughts leapt first, though he had once found pleasure and enough passion to satisfy with her. 

He did not fight the direction of his desire, though he took care with the images he indulged. It could not be Fingolfin as he was now that he thought of –that would intolerable. It could not be the Fingolfin who was _nothing_ to him, _nothing_. 

He closed his eyes as his hand began, and picked that moment in the library when Fingolfin was fresh with youth and newly come of age. He imagined how it could have gone. If he had said this, and touched his fingers like that, might everything have been different? Might Fingolfin have responded, and shed the path he’d chosen for himself –but not yet gone so far down as to be lost—and became the Fingolfin Fëanor hoped he would be?

Too late to go back and discover if these questions were anything more than fantasy. Too late. There was only the false taste of Fingolfin’s mouth opening under his, the heat of their skins sliding against each other, and the blaze of a fire that had never burned and never would because these were only fantasies and who Fingolfin really was now left the taste of ashes in his mouth.


	14. Chapter 14

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 14

Curufin sat in Fëanor’s lap, head pillowed against his father’s shoulder and Fëanor’s arms wrapped about his son’s waist. Curufin, at twelve years, was too old to be cuddled on his father’s lap, but Fëanor could never deny his sons any affection they desired, especially not Curufin. Fëanor knew all his sons, and Curufin had a craving in him to be loved with openness, with hugs and kisses and a thousand reassuring ‘I love you’s.’ Curufin needed this, and Fëanor would give his sons anything they needed.

He petted his son’s sleek raven hair. He kissed his brow, his temple, his nose when Curufin said something particularly clever. Curufin wound his hands in Fëanor’s hair and played with it idly as they spoke of one of their many shared passions: linguistics.

Curufin was big enough his toes almost touched the ground where his coltish legs trailed over the side of Fëanor’s thigh. He kept lifting his head off Fëanor’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of Fëanor’s smile, and the soft love in his eyes. Reassured, he’d lay his head back down again as his tongue ran on, nearly tripping over itself in his excitement to get all the thoughts out, and share them with his father, his favorite person in the world.

His fingers ran through the silky spill of Curufin’s hair, following the shape of his son’s back. Curufin had Fëanor’s hair: black, and so straight and fine it reflected the light like a mirror, creating the appearance of diamonds caught in a mesh of darkness.

Fëanor would stroke his son’s hair like this when Curufin snuck into his bedroom at night when Nerdanel was away, the twins tip-toeing in behind him. Fëanor would smile and pull the covers back for his boys, and Curufin would lift the twins up before he too climbed into the bed to snuggle with his father.

All Fëanor’s sons had done this one time or another, piling in together to hear stories or, when Maglor still visited him in the night, listen to their brother sing them soft lullabies. But Curufin was the only one who kept coming well after his tenth year. He was too old to fall asleep wrapped up in his father’s arms, but Fëanor couldn’t deny Curufin this, for Curufin would take it as a rejection of himself.

Curufin would stop coming to his bed in a few more years when he became more aware of the changes in his body and began exploring those changes for himself. Until then, Fëanor would remain the person Curufin craved physical love from and arms holding him all through the night with all the innocence he’d clung to his father with when he snuggled against Fëanor’s chest begging for bedtime stories, the scent of a baby clinging to his skin.

The door to Fëanor’s study cracked open, and Amrod’s little head peered in at them. Caranthir shoved the door open all the way with an impatient movement, and shooed Amrod in before him. Amrod totter in on legs still chubby from his baby years, but growing steadier by the month. Amras perched on Caranthir’s hip, clutching a fistful of Caranthir’s braids in one hand and trying to stuff them into his mouth to chew on.

Caranthir yanked the braids out of the toddler’s fist with a scowl, and deposited Amras down on his feet. “No eating. I’m not carrying you if you eat my hair.”

Amras pouted, mouth opening on a wail, but Amrod tottered over and grabbed a handful of his twin’s shirt before anything more than a building whine came out. Amrod dragged his twin off to explore the room and Amras forgot all about crying out his displeasure.

Caranthir sent the twins’ backs a glower, before looking to Fëanor and Curufin curled up on the chair together. “Mother’s home.”

Fëanor swatted Curufin’s rear, “Up you get.”

Curufin rose from his father’s lap reluctantly, but without grumbling. Nerdanel had been off visiting her father’s people for over a month, they were all anxious to see her again.

“Is your mother still stabling her horse?” Fëanor strode over to the wandering twins and swung them both into his arms.

They cried with delight, begging to be sent flying high: ‘Up, Daddy, up! Like a birdie, Daddy, pleaaaase!’

“Celegorm took the horse off her. She’s in the entrance hall.” Caranthir fell into stride beside Curufin, the two walking close enough to bump shoulders, passing little messages back and forth with the brush of eyes and secret hand signals they’d made up together in their childhood.

Fëanor’s long legs ate up the distance to the entrance hall, arms full of the twins, and his boys trailing behind him. Nerdanel had hung up her traveling cloak and retwisted her hair into a fresh bun at her nape as they reached her. Curufin flew ahead, and Nerdanel caught him up in her arms to plant a kiss on his cheek. Caranthir had already shared that first sweet embrace with his mother, but he allowed his mother to press another kiss on him.

Fëanor waited for his boys’ bodies to pull away and clear a path to his wife. He leaned in to kiss Nerdanel’s mouth, but found it stiff under his lips. He frowned, drawing back to study her face. She didn’t look into his eyes, her own on the twins, arms reaching out to take first Amrod and then Amras from him and kiss their plump cheeks.

“You have been missed.” Fëanor’s words did not draw her eyes to him.

She deliberately turned away. “Tell me everything you’ve been up to since Mama went away, my dears.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed, boring into the back of Nerdanel’s neck. Caranthir and Curufin’s eyes darted back and forth between their parents. They were old enough to feel the tension stretching tight between their parents, and they’d experienced enough of their parents’ arguments to want to make themselves scarce.

“We’ll tell you later Mother, we should check on Celegorm.” Caranthir led the retreat, holding out his arms for one of the twins, Curufin taking the other.

Nerdanel did not press them to stay, or withhold the twins. She no more enjoyed knowing the boys heard too many of their parents’ quarrels then Fëanor did.

Nerdanel kept her back to Fëanor even after the front door shut behind their boys. Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest. “What is the problem this time?”

Nerdanel’s shoulders stiffened.

“Well?” Fëanor’s voice rose, already tired of this.

Nerdanel straightened out the mess of cloaks hung in the hall, Celegorm’s mud-spattered one having missed a hook entirely to land in a heap on the floor. “You published a new paper while I was away. I read it.”

Fëanor jaw set. “I meant every word. And nothing you say will make me regret it.”

Nerdanel finally turned to face him. Her eyes met his fiery ones with the hardness of stone. “I supported you –even when I did not agree with your words—when it was changes our society could benefit from you spoke of. I supported you. In everything. But your thoughts have become dark. Those words you wrote, you published, they crossed a line, Fëanor.”

Fëanor’s head came up. “I wrote the truth. I did not see the Valar clearly for what they are until they released a murderer—”

“Lord Manwë pardoned Lord Melkor of all—”

“Do not dare call that Vala a ‘lord!’ How many of our people did he dissect, steal away into the darkness and murder slowly—”

“You have no proof of any of this! It’s all just your wild speculations! And don’t try to change the subject!” From her pocket she yanked a folded and creased roll of parchment. She unrolled it with stiff fingers and began to read aloud the words of Fëanor’s latest work: “I refuse to accept the Noldor are bound to the starless midnight of these petty lives the Valar have boxed us into. I refuse to accept we will never walk through these shadows and into the bright daybreak of freedom!”

She shook the scroll at him. “You have gone too far, Fëanor. I stood by you when you spoke of change, but this, this, I will not condone!”

“I never asked you to.”

Nerdanel sucked in a breath, stepping back from the hissed words. “We promised each other when we married that we would walk together, a joined pair, in partnership. We would stand by each other, and support each other in private and in public.”

“It is not I who has renegaded on that promise! It is you who has ever held us back from all we could accomplish!”

“It is you who has ever tottered towards destruction, and I who has saved you again and again from yourself!”

“It is you whose words have grown restraints over the years. Do not try to deny it! Every time you come back from a visit with your father’s people, with Aulë’s people, your council weighs more and more towards controlling my ‘dangerous’ ideas, a little more towards bending our necks and accepting the Valar’s noose!”

“Can you hear yourself? The Valar’s noose? You have grown paranoid and—”

“You have grown complacent—”

“Well you have grown—”

Things degenerated into the sort of fight that brought up Fëanor’s inability to keep his projects from scattering all over the house, Nerdanel’s hair smelling of incense from her evening blessing of Aulë that sunk into all the bed’s pillows, Fëanor’s restless sleeping habits which disturbed Nerdanel’s own rest when Fëanor rose in the middle of the night with inspiration, and accusations of who wasn’t pulling their weight in the boys’ upbringing.

Nerdanel brought the argument to a close without a bang, but a slump of shoulders and a hand scraped down the lines of her face. “Just leave me be, Fëanor.”

The way her voice dragged, like a dog scraping a bone through the dirt, brought back those years after Curufin’s birth. Her desire to share his bed had long faded away, only returning in patches of lust. He never once pressured her for what she would not joyfully give. He would wait until she was ready. He was not his father.

Nerdanel’s own words convicted him this was a matter of a wearied spirit. On the day she first threatened to leave him, she said: “I am tired, Fëanor. I have little energy for myself, my own craft, and I cannot help begrudging that. I am an artist, just as you are, and I need the strength to practice my craft.”

The span between Curufin and the twins’ birth seemed to revive her. She took to her workshop again, creating. But the sound of weariness was often in her voice now.

Her body angled away from him, arms folded across her chest to keep him out. The skin under her eyes carried shadows, and when her gaze darted back to his face a frown formed to see him not heeding her desire for privacy. And he saw at last that it was not only weariness behind her faded desires –it was the absence of desire for him.

It was him she no longer wanted to lie under. Him she wanted to leave her in peace. Him she wanted to be free of the heavy burden of.

Fëanor gave her want she wanted: his absence. He walked away to seek out his sons (who never grew weary of him –yet).

Fëanor would look back, after a hundred more arguments burning in breasts that built and built and built but never found that peace in a linked hand when Nerdanel left for the last time, and mark this moment as the true end of their marriage.

*

Fëanor looked down on the hill of Túna rising from the center of the Calacirya. Tirion shone like a lighting bug in the silver light of the night. The lamps had been lit in her innards and strung up through the streets, setting her aglow.

He turned away, and wove his way through his people’s encampment. They would reach his lands on the morrow, coming home to rest feet wearied by months in the Southern jungles. When Fëanor lead his people into the wilds, it was his custom to trek further, to explore longer, time stretching out into the years. But their expedition had been cut short.

Nerdanel left him, left them all, out there in the wilderness. Fëanor would have determined to press on without her, if only to prove he didn’t need her, but for his sons all the joy had been sucked out of the wonders they discovered. His boys wanted to go home, and Fëanor wanted to see them laugh again.

As Fëanor made his way to his family tent, his people paused in their work to offer him nods and greetings. But none stayed him, and he did not linger at any campfires as he once would have. They all knew Nerdanel had left him. Quite a few heard their last explosive argument (or one of the many that had come before). An air of solemnity had spread itself over his people. They too mourned the absence of his wife and the holes she’d left when she ripped herself out of their lives.

Fëanor could not say he missed Nerdanel. It was the fear planted long ago with his mother’s death that Nerdanel had re-inflicted that had Fëanor lying awake long into the night. Once, he would have missed her place at his side, her steady, calloused hand in his, but it had been a long time since they were anything but beasts circling each other, surging in to tear strips out of the other, and avoiding each other on cautions paws when they weren’t lashing out.

Fëanor reached his tent and pulled the flap aside. He found his sons waiting for him. They looked up as he entered, and offered him smiles the shadow of their former brightness.

Maglor placed his flute to his lips and welcomed Fëanor with a trill of chords that leapt from the heart-piercing cry of a lone, solemn note of beauty, into a run that lifted their hearts like the call of an eagle. Celegorm had the twins curled about him, entertaining them with a tale of adventure as Maedhros finished shoveling out portions of the evening meal with Caranthir’s help.

“Here,” Maedhros pushed a bowl into Caranthir’s hands, “Take this to Father.”

Fëanor settled down beside Curufin, and Curufin scooted closer to melt into his side. He wrapped his arm about him and accepted the bowl from Caranthir with a smile. Caranthir did not return it. His eyes had strayed to Curufin, before jerking away. Curufin stiffened against Fëanor’s side when Caranthir drew close, and carefully ignored Caranthir’s eyes.

Caranthir’s brow darkened before he snapped away to stuff himself into the farthest corner of the tent. Fëanor sighed. Curufin and Caranthir had quarreled some days before Nerdanel left them, and Caranthir refused to confide in any of them what had provoked him into starting it.

Fëanor believed Curufin when he said he didn’t know what had happened. There was such genuine pain in Curufin’s eyes, it was impossible not to believe him. Caranthir resisted all Fëanor’s attempts to discover the heart of the matter, and his moods had grown darker when Curufin started seeking Celegorm out for the companionship Caranthir and Curufin once shared.

Fëanor’s eyes met Maedhros’ over the cooking pot. They spoke to each other in a language deeper than words, the kind of messages he once would have passed with Nerdanel. Maedhros’ eyes told Fëanor he would attempt to bring his brother back and Fëanor should keep his seat beside Curufin who needed the reassurance of love as deeply as Caranthir.

Maedhros carried a bowl of soup over to Caranthir where he’d holed himself up in the corner. He passed it to his little brother with a gentle hand on Caranthir’s shoulder and a soft word. Some of the tension uncoiled from Caranthir’s shoulders, and he relented, letting Maedhros draw him back into the circle of his family and take a seat beside Maedhros.

Maedhros sat forward enough for his long arms to reach the two bowls he’d scooped out for the twins, and passed them into the little ones’ hands with a word to take care. The rest of his brothers Maedhros left to fetch their own supper. Celegorm guided the twins’ bowls to rest on the tent floor, keeping them from spilling. Celegorm had surprised Fëanor when he laid his wings over his littlest brothers’ shoulders, and took up the task of big brother enthusiastically after Nerdanel left.

Curufin left Fëanor’s arms only long enough to fetch his supper before repositioning himself at Fëanor’s side. Fëanor’s free hand settled in Curufin’s hair on instinct, combing through the shinny locks. Curufin sighed into it, resting his head on his father’s shoulder.

“We will be home tomorrow.” Fëanor said, meeting Maedhros’ eyes over the crown of Curufin’s head.

Maedhros took a moment to offer the words Fëanor was desperate for but would not demand lest he loose one of his sons. “Maglor and I will stay home. We will not return to Tirion.”

Maedhros flicked a glance at Maglor, but Maglor just shrugged, not torn at the thought of staying at home. It was not Maglor who would be sacrificing the presence of his love to come home.

Fëanor’s breath came out in a shaky rush, fingers tightening in Curufin’s hair, eyes closing. He opened them again to catch Maedhros’ gaze. “I love all of you, and would not be parted from you.”

“And we love you, Father.” Maedhros answered for all of them as Curufin pressed himself closer into Fëanor’s side. “Things will be easier after we settle back at home.” Maedhros words were aimed not only at Fëanor, but all his brothers, eyes turning to seek theirs out. “It was the shock of it, but we will adjust. We have each other and not one of us will ever leave.”

“Never.” Celegorm’s arms folded over the twins’ slender shoulders.

“We would never leave Father like she did.” Curufin’s eyes blazed.

Caranthir’s hand crawled into Maedhros,’ and Maedhros’ fingers cupped over his little brother’s. Maglor smiled softly, eyes deep and full, and began to sing.

*

Fëanor woke in the night. He hadn’t slept a night through since Nerdanel left them.

Little bodies curled in his arms. He buried his nose in one of the twins’ hair, breathing in his son’s scent. His fingers trailed over the two identical faces, eyes making out the shape of a nose, an ear.

Another body pressed up against his back, warming him to the soul to know his sons had not left him in the night. Gently he pulled his arm out from under the twins’ heads, and turned to run his hands down Curufin’s back. He pressed a kiss into Curufin’s brow. Curufin had stopped sleeping in Fëanor’s bed over a year ago, but had come back after Nerdanel left. Some of his other sons had crawled back too, and Fëanor welcomed them all.

Fëanor eased himself up from Curufin’s side, having to untangle Curufin’s clinging arms from his waist. It was an irrational fear, he told himself this every night, but he had to be sure.

Celegorm’s pale hair glinted in the meager light of the tent on the twins’ other side, and Fëanor stepped cautiously over to kneel beside him. He stroked his fingers through Celegorm’s waves a moment, hands needed to be sure, needing to know for themselves that Celegorm hadn’t left him.

Maglor’s bedroll was spread out a little further from the main pack, lying beside Maedhros.’ Fëanor’s fingers traced the features of Maglor’s face to make sure. Then his hands reached over Maglor’s shoulder to comb through Maedhros’ hair, and touch the strong line of his eldest’s shoulder.

Reassured that six of his sons had not left him, he turned to find the last, eyes combing the dark tent. By rights Caranthir should have been pressed against Curufin’s back, but he’d not taken up the position he’d been born into since his argument with Curufin. He’d started sleeping alone, but Maedhros coaxed him into joining Maglor and him in their huddle most nights.

Fëanor spotted the lump lying a little distant from Maedhros’ long body. He crept over, already knowing something was wrong before his hand pressed into the blanket and found it just a wad of cloth. His stomach twisted up, like he was being eaten from the inside out, one organ at a time.

His feet navigated the maze of limbs as swiftly as they could without waking his sleeping sons. His heart pound, pound, pounded in his chest. Caranthir, he had to find Caranthir.

He broke into the silver light of the night, nearly stumbling out of the tent in his panic. His eyes swung about, wild, needing. He couldn’t find his son. He couldn’t find his Caranthir.

He started north, towards the edge of camp that would lead him back to Tirion, but swerved south after only a few paces. His son had left him and he didn’t know where to start looking for him. He had to find him, had to bring Caranthir back, had to hold him so tightly he swallowed Caranthir whole and never, ever, let his son leave him again.

“Master Fëanor, is something amiss?”

Fëanor could hardly see through the need throbbing in his blood. He latched onto Rhírod the horsemaster’s sleeve. “My son,” his voice was little more than a gasp. “Have you seen Caranthir?”

“The lad wandered over yonder a little while back,” Rhírod pointed in the direction of the western tree line.

The breath Fëanor sucked in seemed to be the first he’d taken since he found Caranthir’s bedroll empty.

“Is something wrong, Master Fëanor?” Rhírod’s hand landed on Fëanor’s shoulder.

Fëanor shook his head. “No, no. I was only looking for him. My thanks for your assistance, Rhírod.”

“Anything I can do to help.”

Fëanor left, sparing his man a hurried nod. He found Caranthir standing in a patch of tree shade. The pine cast a dark shadow, and Caranthir, standing motionless, was nearly lost within it. Fëanor forced himself not to run the last few meters to his son. There was no need to alarm Caranthir now he’d found him.

Caranthir had his back to Fëanor, arms crossed, as he stared out at the view down into the valley the Fëanorions’ campsite afforded them. His shoulders tensed as Fëanor approached, but he did not turn. Fëanor’s arms ached to hold his son, needing to cage him tight.

He wrapped his arms about Caranthir, pulling his son’s back against his chest and dropping his nose into Caranthir’s dark hair. Caranthir stiffened and tried to twist away.

“No, let me hold you.” Fëanor locked his arms tighter about his son. Caranthir stilled, and after a moment relaxed back into his father’s hold. Fëanor breathed his son in. “I love you.”

Caranthir’s breath came out like the tearing of wet fabric. “Stop.”

“I love you,” Fëanor kissed the top of Caranthir’s head. He had to lift up on his toes to plant a kiss on the center of his son’s head. Caranthir had reached eighteen years just last month, but Fëanor judged he had some inches yet to climb.

Fëanor’s hands slid up to rest on his son’s shoulders and turn him slowly. Caranthir resisted, but Fëanor persisted until he had his son’s face in the embrace of his eyes. Caranthir wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Tell me what has driven you out here, alone, in the middle of the night.”

Caranthir’s jaw clenched. He remained stubbornly silent.

“Will you not tell me what passed between Curufin and you? You are hurting and I would see you happy again.” Fëanor’s hands came up to cradle Caranthir’s face, but Caranthir jerked away with a hiss.

“Caranthir, I love you. Let your father help you.”

Caranthir’s eyes flashed up. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? You always have to keep pushing and pushing and pushing until you have what you want!”

(Nerdanel’s eyes flashed at him, all her calm words and steady-as-stone moods shattered in the face of Fëanor’s striking lighting. “Just leave me alone, Fëanor! I’m sick to death of you and your pushing! You’ll never bend me to your will! Your thoughts are strange and dark and I will have no part of them and this rebellion you seek to sow into the hearts of our people!”)

“Caranthir—” Fëanor reached out for him again, but Caranthir twisted out of the hold.

“I just want to be left alone!”

(”I’m done with you, Fëanor!”)

Fëanor’s skin felt like old parchment, crackling and too sensitive to the touch. Caranthir’s rejection was like the fire Fëanor was fed into, burning him away, exposing the raw flesh underneath as his skin crumbled. He mustn’t push too hard lest Caranthir pull away altogether and leave him like Nerdanel left him, like his mother left him, like his father had left him in his heart when he chose his new children over Fëanor. Caranthir had been withdrawing into himself for weeks, tucking away like a turtle in its shell; push much more and he’d never uncurl to fall back into Fëanor’s arms.

Fëanor teetered at the brick, almost stepping over and letting Caranthir pull away. He almost let it lie, hoping Caranthir would open up to him if he gave him the space he asked for.

But what if Caranthir never came to him, never collapsed in Fëanor’s arms and sobbed all his heartbreak into his father’s ear? What if he never again smiled like he used to when his shoulder bumped Curufin’s as they walked side-by-side, best friends forever.

Fëanor loved his son more than he feared losing him, so he pushed.

Caranthir had folded his arms like a shield over his chest.

“Come, sit with me a moment,” Fëanor kept his voice soft and steady as he gestured to the brow of the hill.

Caranthir hesitated, the lines of his face revealing his distress. The way his hands picked at a loose braid spoke as loudly as any words. Caranthir picked at that braid until the slight imperfection in its neatness unraveled into a loop of hair sticking out like a messy ear. Still scowling, he dropped the braid and followed Fëanor over to a patch of grass bathed silver where the foliage peeled back.

They sat watching the valley below, a breeze blowing up from the lowlands and cooling their skin in the humid summer night. Crickets sang, lightning bugs danced, and the sweet scent of mulching green things hung thick and rich in the air. Caranthir didn’t need to use words to speak, he revealed much in how close he’d sat beside his father, asking without asking for comfort. When Fëanor judged his son would not shy away, he draped a quiet arm over Caranthir’s shoulders. Caranthir leaned into it.

“Nothing you said, nothing you did to him, nothing, nothing, could remove my love from you.”

Caranthir slapped Fëanor’s arm off him. “I said leave it.” But he did not pull fully away.

“I cannot.” Both Fëanor’s arms came around to fold Caranthir against him. “Tell me, my dear one. Let me carry it for you.”

Caranthir tucked his chin, hair falling in a curtain between them, but he did not push Fëanor away. His breath sounded clogged in his chest, and Fëanor rocked him, murmuring love into his ear. He brushed hair off his son’s cheek, and covered it in a kiss. He tasted the salt from a single tear-track. Caranthir did not weep, he sat, huddled, pulled tight into his chest, but Fëanor had not expected a storm of tears from his forth son.

Caranthir tugged on Fëanor’s sleeve, wanting free. Fëanor allowed his arms to loosen, and Caranthir to wiggle into their outer-perimeter, but he wasn’t ready to let go entirely.

Caranthir’s fingers curled into their palms, nails biting. His hair still hooked behind his ear where Fëanor had tucked it, and Fëanor saw the clenching of his son’s jaw, the struggle for control.

Caranthir said in a scratchy voice, the only evidence left of the tender emotions that had so briefly conquered him, “You have to promise, you have swear never to tell, Father. You can’t tell Curufin. You can’t tell anyone!”

“I promise. It is just between you and me.”

Caranthir took a shaky breath, and the trembling of his skeleton eased. He breathed in and out for a moment, gathering the words, gathering the courage, but finally, in a roughened voice, he whispered, “I didn’t do anything to him, but I wanted to.” He swallowed.

Fëanor’s hand smoothed down the slope of his son’s back.

Caranthir sucked in another breath and pushed out: “We’d been swimming that day, and were just lying in the heat, drying off, and I…Curufin looked…he looked…I wanted to…kiss him.” Caranthir breathed out like a hiss, pushing off from Fëanor’s chest, whole body bracing. His eyes flashed up, hard, challenging, as he spat: “I wanted to fuck him.”

Fëanor stared, and then pulled himself together. “But you did not.”

Caranthir’s nostril’s failed. “No.” The word broke apart in the air, and all the challenge with it. Vulnerability crept in, and his hands wrung. “I swear, Father, I didn’t touch him. I wanted to, but I—”

“It is alright. I believe you.” Fëanor caught Caranthir’s hands in his.

Caranthir’s face screwed up, and he looked away. He held his body stiff, as if awaiting a blow –awaiting judgment.

Fëanor ran his thumbs over the soft skin on the backs of his son’s hands. “You did nothing wrong.” Caranthir’s skin jumped under his, shoulders twitching, and mouth turning down. “You told me you did not touch Curufin, and I believe you.” Caranthir twisted his hands out of Fëanor’s hold. “No, Caranthir, listen! Desire is not wrong in itself; it is how you act on it. And you choose not to act, which was the right choice, for Curufin is too young to reciprocate your desires with clear understanding.”

Caranthir surged to his feet to stand trembling, fists clenched at his sides, and the night throwing shadows over the angles of his face. “Stop it, just stop it! Stop pretending I did nothing wrong! Stop justifying this…this disgusting thing inside me! Stop lying to me as if that makes anything better!”

Caranthir’s breathing came loud and jagged in the wake of his explosive temper. Fëanor held his silence, waiting until the brutal line of Caranthir’s mouth released its snarl. Caranthir’s eyes still flashed and his hands still clenched, but that fire-storm rage of his had cooled enough for his ears to hear something beyond the pounding of his blood.

Fëanor patted the place beside him in the grass. “Come, let me tell you about Fingolfin.”

The flush seeped from Caranthir’s cheeks as his curiosity conquered his temper. He folded himself into the space beside Fëanor, knees to chest, arms holding his shines in their circle. He sat close enough Fëanor could run his hand down the hill of his back.

And Fëanor told him. He told him about a brother he too had desired, one too young to reciprocate, and his own struggle against the nature of his desire. Caranthir listen with quiet, watching eyes as Fëanor’s curt words relayed the end of that infatuation, not willing to dwell upon the dashed hopes.

“But it does not have to be like that for you,” he said. “We do not know where Curufin’s heart will turn when he is older. Hold a tight leash on your self-control, and if ever you feel yourself tempted passed endurance, flee from the moment and come find me.” Fëanor squeezed Caranthir’s shoulder.

Caranthir’s mouth compressed, brows drawing into a mountain range. “The probability of my losing control is too great a factor. You should be adding my infamous temper into the equation. I have never been known for my self-control.” His eyes narrowed, glaring at his father. “Curufin is fifteen. How dare you allow such a danger as myself near him?”

Fëanor met Caranthir’s accusing gaze squarely. “I dare because you love him more then you desire him. You will not hurt him in this way.” Fëanor believed that absolutely. If he did not he would not let Caranthir fall into a position in which he might reach out and take, and in the doing damage. Curufin was as safe in Caranthir’s company as ever.

Caranthir’s mouth twisted with bitterness. “Ah, but in other ways even you can no longer ignore my short-comings. I made sure he hates me. And I was cruel in the doing. It is too late now, Father.”

“No, it is not too late.” Fëanor scooted closer and enclosed Caranthir’s balled up form in his arms. Caranthir’s hands twisted a death-grip into the fabric of his leggings. “Yes, you have hurt your brother, deeply, but he loves you and yearns for the mending of your friendship. If you but treat him as you once did, then he will forgive you.”

Caranthir closed his eyes, like he closed his ears. “How can you condone a return of our closeness when you know….you know…?” He jerked his head like a horse trying to throw off its bit.

“Because I trust you. You love your brother. That is the root, and there is nothing ugly in your love.”

“You think that because of Fingolfin?” Caranthir threw back, stubborn even in his determination to condemn himself. “Fingolfin was not your real brother, not in any of the ways that mattered. You did not grow up beside him like two saplings in the shade of their mother-tree. It was not the same for you.”

Fëanor took Caranthir’s fleeing, hardened face into his hands, turning it back to him. He said nothing for a long moment, only watching his son as Caranthir’s jaw worked with emotion. Then he said, “You do not have to be afraid. If you and Curufin one day lie together in love, I will not turn from you. Your brothers will not turn from you. Curufin will not turn from you.” He caressed that sharpened angle of a jaw, “Forgive yourself for loving him.”

Caranthir let out a breath like a whale coming up for air, explosive. Fëanor jerked his son’s body to him before Caranthir could turn to fire and stone again, and this time Caranthir’s hands scrambled in the back of Fëanor’s tunic, gripping him back, and his face buried in Fëanor’s hair as if he never wanted to come up for breath. His voice came muffled and shaky. “What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if he finds out about this and hates me for it? What if—”

“He will never hate you, and nothing terrible will happen because you are not alone in this. You are stronger than any desire. I cannot promise he will desire you back when he is older, but his friendship is worth more than any safety you might believe your harshness has achieved.” Fëanor soothed his hands down Caranthir’s dark hair, cherishing him, binding the moment of this permitted embrace tight to his heart.

Caranthir unfolded himself from Fëanor’s body, and Fëanor had to let him go, though he longed to cling and cling. Fëanor’s hands lingered on his son’s shoulders. “Will you allow yourself to love him? Without self-hate?”

Caranthir swallowed, head bowed. “I will try.”

Fëanor took his son’s face in his hands. “Good. I will help you, if you will let me.” Caranthir nodded, not meeting his eyes. Fëanor’s fingers traced tenderness into his son’s skin. “The cruelty you have used to push him away must stop, Caranthir.”

Caranthir’s mouth trembled. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip. “I’m sorry.”

“It is not me who needs to hear your apology.”

Caranthir’s lashes dropped over his eyes, and he tried to slip his face away from his father’s gaze, but Fëanor held him steady. “I know.”

Fëanor’s thumbs brushed the strong line of his son’s jaw. The skin bore the tinniest of freckles, most dotting his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “I love you.” He pressed a kiss into Caranthir’s forehead, right there where a bold three freckles made a collection like stars over Caranthir’s brow. “I will always love you.”

Caranthir’s dark eyes met his, an answering love perched itself there, unspoken, but steady and loyal as a heartbeat. Caranthir let out a long sigh, resolution climbing into the bones of his face. Fëanor smiled to see it. Caranthir would win back his friend. Now Fëanor must ensure Caranthir and Curufin’s story did not end as his own had.


	15. Chapter 15

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 15

Fëanor took a large gulp of wine. He could feel a headache starting in the back of his teeth. His father had left his side for the first time all night. Usually Fëanor would have enjoyed the attention of his father all for himself, but Finwë only hovered because he worried. 

Finwë had dropped everything to come to Fëanor’s side when he returned home wifeless, and Fëanor clung to his father’s love, more possessive of it than ever. But resentment twisted in his chest against his father for pleading with and manipulating him until he agreed to bring his sons to Tirion for tonight’s feast. He tried to snuff the resentment out (he must never blame his father) but it would not be smothered. 

He swallowed another mouthful of wine, not caring to socialize. He hated small-talk almost as much as he struggled with it. It was just so irritating. He didn’t have the patience for it, and didn’t see why he should subject himself to smiling at people he couldn’t stand anyway. 

This whole thing reminded him of too many childhood memories he preferred to forget. Finwë had conveniently forgotten to inform him that not only would Fingolfin and Finarfin and their broods be in attendance, but Irimë had trotted down from Taniquetil where she’d been holed up with her Vanya husband these last years sparing them all her grating company.

Fëanor shot Indis’ daughter a glare. His fingers went white about his goblet when he saw his son speaking to her. Fëanor launched out of his chair and stalked over. 

Irimë smiled at something Maglor said, head tilting closer. Fëanor would not allow Indis’ daughter anywhere near his sons. She would try to steal them away from him like her mother tried to steal his father.

Maglor’s back faced Fëanor, but Irimë saw him coming and narrowed her eyes. Fëanor’s arm went about his son’s shoulders, eyes clashing with hers. Maglor turned his head, and gave his father a smile. Fëanor’s arm tightened possessively about his boy.

His eyes glinted as they met Irimë’s. “Maglor, go find your brothers.” 

His son obeyed him without protest, leaving Fëanor alone with Indis’ daughter.

“Fëanor,” Irimë drew his name out like a cat scratching its claws down a wall. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

Fëanor’s lip curled. “How unfortunate for you I cannot say the same.”

Irimë’s gave him a smile the kin of poison. “I don’t see your wife in attendance. I hope dear Nerdanel is not unwell. I had not heard her to be with child again, but you do keep her busy.”

“Irimë.” Finarfin’s robes trailed against the floor, concealing the dropping of his feet and giving him the appearance of gliding. He came to stand at Irimë’s shoulder. “Please do not taunt our brother. Now is the not the time to nurse your dislike.” 

Finarfin had a soft voice ever counseling consideration. He’d been taught to control his emotions as was the way of Noldor lords. In another, Fëanor would not have trusted the face Finarfin showed the world, but Fëanor had taken Finarfin’s measure in Alqualondë. 

Nerdanel and his travels took them to the sea, and they lingered when Fëanor accepted commissioned work for the Teleri palace. The work provided enough of a challenge to keep him from moving on, as did Maedhros and Maglor’s delight in the sea. Fëanor took his sons swimming daily, and held Maglor’s hand as he tottered along the water’s edge, squealing with laughter whenever the surf knocked him off his unsteady legs. Maedhros spent as much time examining sea shells, seaweed, and driftwood the tides brought in, as splashing about in the waves. Fëanor considered getting the boys a puppy as a playmate. 

He spotted his half-brother off-and-on, usually when out in the city. Finarfin seemed as popular with the Teleri as their own royal family; more than once Fëanor was stopped in the street for an inquiry after his half-brother. 

They shared only one meaningful conversation, but it was enough to show Fëanor Finarfin’s nature was wholly divorced from his scheming, sugar-tongued, serpent-hearted Mother’s.

(Finarfin had his back to Fëanor, facing the sea, and stood upon a rocky outcrop. He hurled stone after stone into the heaving waters. Splash. Splash. Splash. He grunted with each stone as he cast it out, like he cast out a little part of himself with it. 

There was something haunting about him standing there with the sea-wind picking up his unbound hair, throwing the golden curls in a tangled mess around him like a cloak of light.

Sensing eyes on his back, Finarfin turned. No tears touched his cheeks, but the expression on his face, in his eyes, sunk deeper than any tears. 

“Fëanor…” Finarfin licked lips dried from the wind’s attentions.

Finarfin had been nothing more than a babe when Fëanor left his father’s household, and Fëanor had never taken much notice of this half-sibling, the other two overshadowing him. He had noticed Irimë who he despised as a true daughter of Indis in spirit and appearance more. He observed Finarfin now and found a boy resembling a shy animal with the way he pulled his body in under Fëanor’s gaze, as if apologizing for his existence, ashamed of disturbing the air around him.

But then Finarfin straightened his spine, uncurling his shoulder blades, and untucking his elbows from his sides until he stood with the promise of a son of Finwë’s height, and something firm found its place inside his eyes. It seemed then that the skin that seemed too big for him a moment ago, now struggled to contain a secret hurricane inside.

“My mother says Father gives the Teleri too many concessions, that he puts too great a store in the Noldor’s friendship with them. She calls them wild, and the way her lip curls when she says it leaves no doubt that they are her inferiors.” Finarfin looked away. Then he swallowed and finished this. “I guess this is exactly where I belong then. With the inferiors.”

Fëanor’s head cocked, studying this half-brother who’d struck him as a gentle creature with little to none of Finwë’s nature. “Do you truly believe that?”

Finarfin looked back at him, something resigned and yet defiantly so in his next words. “You know it’s true. It has always been true.”

“And do you believe the Teleri are the Noldor’s inferiors?”

Finarfin’s eyes flashed. “No. Why? Do you?” Fëanor’s mouth twitched up at the sudden steeliness in the voice of this tender-limbed boy.

“No. We have our superior skills, and they have theirs. That does not make them a lesser people.” Fëanor paused to capture Finarfin’s complete attention. “Indis has hidden any truth beneath a valley of lies. You cast out her beliefs easily enough when it comes to the Teleri, and yet you have taken them to heart when they encompass yourself. Why?”

Finarfin’s confidence seeped away now the arrow pointed back at him. “Even one misguided in their beliefs about one thing can see the truth in another. I have found myself unsatisfactory by the measure of our people, just as my mother has seen. She counseled me to harden my heart, for I am easily hurt. I tried, but all I could accomplish was play-acting indifference. I failed in the mastering of myself, as is our people’s way. All I could accomplish were the fake-faces of masks to hide behind because my skin was as thin as ever. Not even the pain I took too readily to heart could form a callous. I am a soft, weak creature.”

Fëanor shook his head, sneering at Indis’ ‘wisdom.’ “Will you let Indis’ lies define you? Will you remain the person she has reduced you to who apologizes for your own existence? Or maybe you will let her turn you into a stranger, her illusionary vision of a ‘proper Noldo prince?’ A man who has only emptiness of soul, and lies on his tongue, because he has allowed someone else to tell him who he is is not good enough.”

Finarfin’s arms came up to tighten about himself, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to bloom a pattern of bruises tomorrow. “Your words make it sound so easy, but I know it is not, for I have tried. She is my mother, and I cannot help myself from yearning for her approval. Even after everything.”

Fëanor’s jaw clenched, patience pulling thin. “So you accept her lies as truth? You will bite down on your tongue until the blood runs, and know that taste of iron is yourself –your true self—bleeding out? You will become nothing but the creature she would mold you into?”

Finarfin stood on the rocky outcrop, staring out into the sea as if it possessed all the answers he searched for. The silence thickened between them, but just when Fëanor began to think Finarfin was not ready to listen to his sound advice, Finarfin’s spine stiffened. Good. Fëanor had no watered-down version to feed him.

Finarfin turned back to Fëanor and met him with a set jaw. “No, I will not allow her to reduce me to such a creature. But…” Uncertainty threatened to unpop his new spine, “I do not know how to…I do not have the strength to stand up to her.”

Fëanor folded his arms over his chest. “Then do not attempt to face her until you do.”

Finarfin’s mouth opened and closed. Finally he said, “Is it really as simple as that?”

Fëanor shrugged. “I do not see why not. You will gather strength as you age –if you set your mind on it. You feel comfortable to be yourself here, in Olwë’s care, do you not?”

“Yes,” Finarfin nodded, looking at Fëanor as if Fëanor were the parent he should have had come to save him. It made Fëanor uncomfortable. He had never bothered with Finarfin before this.

“Very well then. Stay with the Teleri, find yourself, and when you have a mind, come back to Tirion. Or never come back if that is how you want it.”

Finarfin ate up his words, nodding along. They seemed to give him strength and purpose, so Fëanor brushed his own discomfort aside. He would not be staying in Alqualondë long enough for Finarfin to grow dependent on him. Better to let someone who could actually grow to love Finarfin with the parental love he craved fill that place.)

“Half-brother,” Irimë corrected Finarfin.

Fëanor kept his eyes on Irimë as he sidled up to Finarfin and threw an arm about him, startling a wide-eyed look from those too-calm features. “Come, Brother, I have not met your newest progeny yet. Father boasts about the boy so often he has given us all belly aches, so let me meet this wonder.”

Fëanor steered Finarfin away, shooting a smirk back at Irimë. Her cheeks flushed an angry red, mouth pinched tight. She looked as ugly as that mean spirit of hers. 

“You should not encourage her,” Finarfin slanted Fëanor an amused look. “You two get worse every year.”

Fëanor laughed, as loudly as he liked. He felt eyes on him, but there was only one pair he lifted his own to meet. Fingolfin stood with their father, eyes riveted on the scene of Fëanor’s arm slung about Finarfin’s shoulders, laughing together like they were brothers in more than name. 

Fëanor dismissed Fingolfin with his eyes the next moment. He might have noticed how stunning Fingolfin’s hair looked threaded with blue-diamonds and pearls, how strong his shoulders and slim his waist in the tunic he wore tonight, but Fëanor still didn’t like him. Whoever Fingolfin had once been, who he’d become wasn’t worth more than a glance.

Finarfin nodded in the direction of his wife. Fingolfin’s forgettable wife tickled the newborn’s nose while the babe’s mother looked on. “So, do you really want to meet Aegnor?” 

“Not particularly.”

Finarfin shook his head, eyes picking up the glow of mirth. “If you were anyone else, Brother, I would take offence to that.”

“You, offence? I would like to see the day.” Fëanor retrieved his arm from Finarfin’s neck. Finarfin laughed as Fëanor walked off to find his sons.

Since their return home a few months ago, Fëanor had been unable to let his sons out of sight for long. He’d kept them all at home, warping himself tight about them. Nerdanel had come back to visit (not to stay) only once. She’d wanted to see the boys. Fëanor said she could see them as often as she liked, but only here, in their home (with him the presence at their back, hovering, unpicking every word from her mouth –did she seek to seduce them away?—and word from their own –were they tempted?). Her temper flared at the restriction; his flared back and he’d told her she could have none of them then! 

His sons had stayed by his side as she turned her words to them, telling them they had a place with her in her father’s house if ever they should seek her out. His sons had not left him for her, but what if one day they did?

He found Caranthir and Curufin first, still lingering in the hall. Curufin had his arms crossed against his chest. His gaze was attentive on the young man he spoke with, but none of his irresistible passion vibrated through his body, and his eyes did not carry the wonders of the galaxy inside them. 

Curufin had been a chatter box as they took the road to Tirion, excited to finally see the city of the Noldor, properly. Maedhros and Maglor had relayed many of its wonders and points needing improvement, and now Curufin would be able to judge for himself. His enthusiasm waned by degrees, each conversation he held with those not of his father’s people dimming the light in his eyes a fraction more and hitching a sneer on his face. 

The last time Fëanor had spotted him, Curufin had been conversing with lord’s son a few years his elder. Curufin was free with his opinion on the newly implemented amendment to Tirion University’s admissions policy. Now any lord’s son could buy his way into a Mastery. The lord’s son had not taken the criticism of ‘his people’s’ bastion of higher education well (Curufin’s cool voice and haughty brow: ‘Would that be the university my father founded?’). 

Curufin used well-structured points to argue his case, not shying away from naming the root cause of the amended policy: lords’ sons wishing to attain the bragging rights of studying at the university without completing the years of pre-admission’s work a less affluent applicant would have to fulfill. Nor did he stop there, but pointed out the damage and danger such practices could lead to for the future of their people. 

His debating opponent, lacking Curufin’s cleverness of tongue and reasoning, resorted to base insults to try and win his argument. Curufin had looked down his nose at the young man, and dismissed him with his back walking away. He hadn’t taken that superior look off his face until now. 

It was inevitable Curufin would discover his was one of the cleverest minds in the room, but Fëanor did not like to see his son aloof and miserable. At least Caranthir had stuck himself to his little brother’s side. Curufin would not feel alone at the top.

Caranthir’s snide voice drew a smile to Fëanor’s mouth, and had Curufin’s ear tilting. The flicker of Curufin’s eyes to the side where Caranthir leaned against the wall, arms folded, betrayed his divided attention. 

“Yes, a lovely evening,” Caranthir said to the fancied-up lady who’d dared intrude upon his solitude. “Full of stimulating conversation and decorations so ostentations I could choke on their glitter and flounce on their way up my throat.”

The lady’s fine brows pinched. “There is no call to be rude.” She smoothed a hand down the lace-work on her gown. “Think of this evening as a perfect opportunity to forge new friendships if the décor offends your sensibilities.”

Caranthir’s brow rose. “Are you advertising yourself for the role of new ‘friend’?”

Her chin tipped up. “I don’t see why not. If you would keep a civil tongue in your mouth, I might very well find you tolerable.” She smiled, a touch of the coy in the lowering of her lashes, “Maybe even more then tolerable.”

“Ah,” Caranthir’s lip curled. “I should tuck in all the parts of myself you find unpleasant so you only rub up against soft edges, hmm? Will you find me tolerable enough to put up with my face for the reward of my name if I just file myself down for you?”

A flush crept up her neck and into her cheeks. “You mistake me! I have asked only that you cease your insults. And as for your suggestion that I approached you only for your status, well I take offense!”

“Do you?” Caranthir’s eyes hardened. “So, lady, you find me fair to look upon? You lingered in my presence ever after I informed you of my disinterest in your company because you found me intriguing?”

“I—” She floundered, mouth open and closing. She couldn’t meet Caranthir’s eyes. 

Fëanor’s nostrils flared. Shallow, blind, girl! His son was worth a thousand of her, and if she could not see Caranthir’s beauty in his unique features, then she deserved to wed a boringly handsome man with the wits of an ass between his ears!

Caranthir turned a knowing and mocking smile on the girl. 

“Ugh!” She threw up her hands. “Why must you be such a…a…”

“Bastard?” Caranthir said.

The girl glared, and turned smartly on the ball of her foot to stride away with a furious rustling of silk. Caranthir didn’t look triumphant at her leaving, just relieved. He turned his attention back to Curufin, catching Curufin watching him out of the corner of his eye. His high cheekbones gathered a blush, freckles standing out on tan skin. Curufin quickly looked away, pretending he hadn’t been as protective of his brother as his brother was of him.

Fëanor found Celegorm, Maglor, and the twins in one of the gardens. Celegorm sprawled out in the grass, one knee bent, and hair loose about his shoulders. He played with one of his hunting knives he must have smuggled into the feast tucked into his boot. 

Celegorm had retreated back into the company of his brothers now he’d grown bored of the frenzied adoration his good looks had attracted from the women (and a fair few men) of the court. He’d played the charmer for a time, finding some secret amusement in being flirted with outrageously and having mothers thrust their daughters into his arms. When he grew tired of his game, he’d smiled one of his special smiles, not the dimpled, dazzling ones, but the ones of his wilder nature, flashing white, sharp, and sly. The admires sensed the predator in him now the sheep’s coat was pulled away, and shrunk from it, though they could not put a finger on the pulse of their fear. Primitive instincts had ruled them, and Celegorm had been left in peace but for a few brave souls. 

The twins played in the fountain, splashing each other, giggling, and nearly toppling in. But Maglor sat on the fountain’s lip, within easy fishing distance to lift them back out again.

A golden haired child sat at Maglor’s feet as he entertained the little group with a song. Fëanor thought the child might be Finarfin’s eldest, but hadn’t been paying much attention when Finwë introduced the wide-eyed boy. He’d met Finarfin’s eldest before, as the boy was only a few years short of Curufin’s age, but Fëanor had never seen a need to speak to the child.

He didn’t see a reason to separate his sons from their half-cousin, and left to locate his last son. 

He came across Caranthir and Curufin again on his way back to the festivities. They had migrated into one of the lesser halls. Caranthir was in the middle of an argument with Fingolfin’s second boy, Turgon, who clutched his sister’s hand. The girl looked an inch from flying at Caranthir and punching him. Curufin stood at his brother’s shoulder turning Turgon’s words neatly back on him. Fëanor smiled to see Curufin and Caranthir working together again, and left them to it. His sons could take care of themselves.

He found Maedhros where he expected: seated next to Fingolfin’s boy. 

Maedhros was the deciding reason Fëanor had agreed to endure this tedious feast to begin with. Fingolfin’s boy had come to visit Maedhros at Fëanor’s house a few times since their return, but Maedhros longed for more of the boy. Fëanor hadn’t pried when Maedhros proved evasive on revealing how his relationship with the boy progressed, but as Fingon had reached his majority now, Fëanor fully expected Maedhros to come to him any day with happiness swelling his chest so full his eyes overflowed with it as he told his father Fingon and he were lovers at long last.

A group of other young men surrounded Maedhros and Fingon. Fëanor had noted Fingon’s tendency to attract attention. Elves, especially those of the younger generation, flocked about him, with him the center of the orbit revolving about him. Every time Fëanor saw Fingon, the boy seemed to be laughing about something.

Fëanor drew close enough to hear the boisterous conversation Fingon was the heart of. Maedhros sat at Fingon’s side, watching Fingon like all the others, but watched in his turn equally. Maedhros did not speak often, but when he did everyone stopped to listen, hanging upon his words. 

“…come on, Fingon, don’t hold out on us. Everyone’s heard the rumor.” One of the young men leaned forward, the others jostling him good-naturally.

“That’s out of order, Gailron!” One of the other young men laughed. “Fingon’s a gentleman. He doesn’t gossip about his bed business!”

Gailron wagged his eyebrows. “That’s not what I heard.”

“What’s this?” Fingon laughed. “Someone’s been spreading slander about me! I’m always a gentleman with the ladies.”

One of the young men snorted. “Then why does the rumor say you broke poor Malpheth’s heart after a servant caught you two in a compromising situation?”

Fingon raised a brow. “I may have kissed her at Lord Pelloch’s party, but I don’t see how I could have broken her heart over a kiss.” 

“Ohhhh, so you did kiss her! Come on, how was she? Gailron thinks she’s the prettiest girl at court!”

“I do not!” Gailron smacked the crowing young man on the back of the head. The table erupted in laughter.

Fëanor’s eyes had not left his son. Maedhros sat very still, knuckles showing white where he clenched them in his lap.

The moment Fëanor walked up to their table, the young men went dead silent, eyes swiveling up to stare at him. Fëanor raised a brow, eyes raking over Fingon’s body, and lip curling to show he found something wanting in his perusal. “I had not taken you for the kind of Elf who played with another’s heart, boy. It is a truly disgusting trait.”

“Father.” Maedhros’ hiss snapped Fëanor’s eyes to his son’s, but all he could see behind the plea to leave it was the pain. His son’s heart was being broken slowly, and Fëanor would not stand for anything or anyone hurting one of his sons.

Fëanor seared Fingon with another look. “An Elf who is too blind to see the priceless treasure he has been given is not welcome in my home. Let this be a warning to you, son of Fingolfin, do not show your face at my doorstep again. Until you prove yourself deserving of my sons’ company, I do not want you near them.”

Fingon’s cheeks had paled, but now color swooped back in. He opened his mouth, eyes snapping, but before any words got out Maedhros shoved his chair back with such force it screeched across the stones. “I would like a word with you, Father.”

“Oh yes, my son, you may have one.” 

Maedhros circled the table to come stand beside Fëanor. Maedhros didn’t touch, and kept their shoulders from brushing as he led the way out of the hall, strides long and elegant even as Fëanor tasted his son’s temper lashing just under the surface. Maedhros didn’t let it loose until they’d found a private room and he’d shut the door behind them.

Only then did Maedhros whip around to face his father. “I will thank you, Father, to steer clear of my business.”

Fëanor closed the distance between them, snatching up Maedhros’ wrist when his son tried to step away, wanting the distance from Fëanor’s fire to cool his own temper. Fëanor’s fingers circled about his son’s wrist, closing tight and fast like a bracelet of iron. 

“That boy does not deserve to even look at you! How dare he refuse your heart! How dare he make a mockery of your love—”

Maedhros wrestled his wrist free. He titled his nose up to look down its length at Fëanor. “I do not expect you to understand a love that is not returned. But unlike you, Father, my heart does not spit upon everyone who does not give me exactly what I want.”

Fëanor’s mouth parted with a gasp at the blow, eyes raking over Maedhros’ face. Not from his son, not this scorn from his Maehdros.

Maedhros’ face creased with regret, and his hand came up, catching Fëanor’s. “I am sorry, Father. I should not have spoken to you thus. I know you only spoke out of your love for me.” He sighed, thumb rubbing against the inside of Fëanor’s wrist.

“It is forgiven,” Fëanor pulled Maedhros into an embrace, holding his eldest tight, tight, tight (never let go). “I cannot bear to see you hurting.”

“I know.” Maedhros rested his chin on Fëanor’s shoulder, holding his father back. “But this is between Fingon and me. There is no mockery, Father. I have not told him of my heart. He…his desires do not turn towards men. There is nothing that can be done, and nothing he did wrong. He cannot change the way he was born anymore then I can.”

Fëanor turned his mouth in to kiss his son’s cheek. He was not convinced Fingolfin’s boy did not have the potential to love Maedhros if he only opened his eyes and looked. Fëanor had watched the boy’s eyes when they looked upon Maedhros, and he was convinced there was something there. But he held his peace. He would not plant hope in Maedhros’ heart lest it be false. Maedhros’ heart might yet turn to another. It was not impossible to love more than once. 

But if that boy did not open his eyes soon, Fëanor would do what he could to discourage the continued friendship. It would only hurt Maedhros to walk forever just out-of-reach of what his heart desired. Fëanor would not see his son’s heart blacken to bitterness. But he could not push too hard; he could not risk Maedhros pulling away. He could not lose his little fox, not his firstborn.

Maedhros released his father, pulling back. “We should return to the feast. Who knows what my brothers have gotten up to in our absence.”

Fëanor reached up to comb his son’s hair back into order. “I saw Curufin and Caranthir quarreling with some of their cousins in the Hall of Crystal.”

Maedhros shook his head. “Is it too much to hope you separated them?”

Fëanor’s mouth quirked. “Why would I do that?”

Maedhros sighed, but his mouth wore its own smile. “Well, I am not babysitting them all night.” He shot his father a pointed look. Maedhros wanted to snatch as much of Fingon’s company as he could.

Fëanor’s mouth thinned, but he kept the words back.

Maedhros turned, heading for the door. He paused to look back with his hand resting on the handle. “Will you try not to agitate too many lords tonight? Things have been tense at court since your latest essay.”

Fëanor’s nostrils flared. “I will thank you to not tell me how to conduct myself.”

Maedhros’ shoulders stiffened. “If you cannot walk more softly for your own sake, think of how hard you are making things for me. You know I work only for the good of our people. My beliefs are the match of your own –always. Did you not mold my mind to the path of sight from the moment of my birth? But if you wish our goals to be fulfilled you must stop making enemies.” 

Maedhros jerked his head, turning away, and closed the door carefully behind him, the movement tightly controlled. Once, Maedhros would not have cared if he’d slammed the door behind him. 

His son had adopted the ‘art’ of self-mastery. Fëanor closed his eyes, struggling against the burn of emotions in his chest. 

Maedhros had picked up the game of politics and played it with skill. He enjoyed the dance, and Fëanor approved of anything his son enjoyed. There was nothing wrong with dancing a fine dance and becoming a master. The pitfall was losing oneself in petty power games as Fingolfin had, becoming nothing but a fake face. But Maedhros set his eyes on greatness, and played the game as a means to the achievements of their goals.

The face behind the sculpted one would always belong to Fëanor. He knew his son’s heart, and it belonged to him, his sons, and their people and cause. Maedhros had slipped a bit over his expression of the passion within, but it still burned inside, and his loyalty would never shake from Fëanor’s side. 

Fëanor opened his eyes, and made for the door. He did not doubt his son for a moment. His mind and heart were firmly set beside Maedhros,’ and nothing and no one would sway him. No Indis, no lie, no fear could ever worm itself between Fëanor and one of his sons.

The Great Hall greeted him with sticky heat, light sliding off the thousand polished surfaces, and the sound of five-hundred voices. Fëanor watched Maedhros weave his way back to Fingon’s side before forcing himself to look away and leave Maedhros to his choices. He found a corner of the hall and radiated an aura of inapproachability. He’d reached his limit of encounters with irritations, which was the vast majority of the guests gathered tonight.

He felt the presence at his back and knew the taste of the one it heralded long before Fingolfin spoke. Fingolfin still smelled the same: like a thousand possibilities, like fingertips outstretched to the stars, and a young man with jewel-blue eyes and hair like storm-clouds Fëanor wanted to drown his skin inside. But the voice at his back was perfectly polished and controlled. A perfect lie.

“Your son Curufin has made quite the impression tonight.”

Fëanor turned to confront the subtle mockery. No one mocked his children. Fingolfin’s face met him, cool and armored as if a snake’s skin had been pulled over all the angles and curves of his face. And still, still, that face sucked all the breath from his lungs. He had never found another Fingolfin’s equal in beauty.

But Fingolfin’s words demonstrated exactly how little there was to desire behind the shape of beauty. Just another forked-tongued politician glinting out of eyes he’d once lov—

“There are few times I have been prouder of Curufin then tonight.” The words sprung sharpened from his mouth. “I see no point in holding opinions and beliefs if a person does not have the courage or moral character to stand upon them.” He watched the words strike Fingolfin as they were meant to, but Fingolfin being the practiced liar and player he’d become only revealed their strike in the way a tendon in his jaw jumped with his teeth’s clenching. 

“After all,” Fëanor continued, not allowing Fingolfin to escape his gaze, “What is the point of seeking a position of governance and power in our courts if you cannot speak your own mind?”

Fingolfin took a step forward, closing the gap between them and spinning a web of intimacy in the space separating their bodies from touch. Bright as the hall’s light was tonight, his cheekbones still curved a shadow under their beautiful arch from ear to chin. Fingolfin had a pair of cheekbones that hollowed out his cheeks and turned them into smooth planes that left Fëanor’s fingers itching to sketch them.

Fingolfin’s eyes were not the kind of eyes that wore wide-eyed innocence; they were the kind of eyes that smoldered. The light gathered in them, until their blue was a shock of color between dark lashes. “I hope you do not give that little speech to your sons, Fëanor. It may have escaped your notice, but Maedhros is a gifted and willing dealer in politics.”

Fëanor smiled like ice, and heard Fingolfin’s sharp intake of breath. “Do not ever try to turn my sons against me. You will lose. Badly.”

Fingolfin’s mouth tightened. “I was making no such attempt. But I will not flee from pointing out their differences from you, nor from telling you when you are being a fool.”

Fëanor’s nostrils flared, his indrawn breath brought him the scent of Fingolfin, so close he could feel the warmth of his body’s heat and count the little flecks of deeper blue swirling inside Fingolfin’s eyes. So close his eyes dipped of their own accord down to the lush bow of Fingolfin’s mouth.

Fingolfin was not done. “Are you so blinded by your prejudice you cannot see that Maedhros, a courtier in name and deed, does what he believes to be right whether or not he preaches his believes to all the court? Yes, he walks in subtly, and wins his gains through allies and shifting decks of power, but he is not lie. Though he dances around the truth of his beliefs he is no two-faced! The actions he takes, the results he moves into place, speak as loudly as any speech in the Great Square if only you were listening!”

Fëanor knew all this very well, he did not need Fingolfin to shove it in his face as if Fingolfin knew his son better then he! If Fingolfin thought to play some game over Maedhros then he was grossly deluded. Maedhros was Fëanor’s, and nothing Fingolfin said could ever turn Fëanor from his son. He knew exactly what kind of person Fingolfin was, and Fëanor was not buying anything he was selling.

Fëanor reminded Fingolfin of the person Fingolfin had chosen to be that Fëanor saw right though. “I am surprised one who takes such care with who he is seen associating with would entertain the company of Lord Tatharben tonight.” Fingolfin’s head came up. Oh yes, Fëanor had seen him. 

Fëanor’s lip curled, showing tooth as he leaned closer, eyes heating as the anger swept over him anew. “You are a cunning player of your games; I will give you that, Half-brother. So do not even attempt to deny your knowledge of exactly where that man’s political loyalties lie. He did not take any care to conceal them when your mother wormed her way into my father’s marriage bed. Lord Tatharben was distorting my mother’s name before your mother was more than a fly in my father’s mind, and he lined up with the first of them to hail Indis as Queen of the Noldor.” 

Fëanor breath came harsh and panting between them, hands shaking, wanting to smack that perfectly blank, perfectly manufactured expression off Fingolfin’s face. “How very familiar you were with him. Do you drop-by for a weekly tea-stop at his pretentious home to catch up on all the latest plots to usurp my mother’s memory and my place at my father’s side? Well?” Fëanor snapped the words off with teeth, and Fingolfin’s jerked his proud head up to meet them.

“You sound ridiculous,” Fingolfin’s tone was flat, dismissive. Fëanor hated it, hated everything about the person Fingolfin had become, cold and passionless as a marble statue. Where had the little boy eager for the world, hungry for Fëanor’s smiles and arm about his shoulders gone? 

Fingolfin turned, making to walk away. No! Fëanor caught Fingolfin’s bicep and yanked Fingolfin back to him. Fingolfin’s side smacked into Fëanor’s chest. The heat of that strong body, the scent of that cloud of hair, the flash of blue eyes breaking through the ice of their customary exterior and burning with something more than cool apathy, cascaded over Fëanor. He couldn’t help the way his pulse leapt in his wrists and his mouth parted in anticipation. In want.

“Let go of me, Fëanor.” Fingolfin ground the words out, conscious, even now, of not making a scene, and Fëanor wanted to scream.

He thought he might just hate Fingolfin for still, still, being a able to do things to him after all this time even as Fingolfin proved himself once again the kind of person so consumed with saving his own face he’d killed everything that had once drawn Fëanor to him like an addiction. Why must Fingolfin, who was nothing to him, be the only one who he’d ever burned to have like this? The only one to haunt his dreams, stalk his fantasies, drive him to madness with the want when they were still young enough he allowed himself to image what might yet come to be between them. 

He didn’t want Fingolfin now. He didn’t want anything to do with him.

Fëanor took his hand off Fingolfin like he’d touched something repulsive, and shoved passed, not looking back. Fingolfin –ever concerned with his public face—didn’t follow after. Fëanor hated Fingolfin a little more for that.

He found a sparsely populated pocket of the hall to claim as his own, the storm-cloud in his face driving the other Elves scurrying away. He snagged a wine glass from a passing servant, and threw back a gulp. He was seriously considering leaving this farce of an entertaining evening right this minute, taking his younger sons with him, and letting Maedhros soak up the bitter-sweet presence of Fingolfin’s boy as long as he liked. 

“Are you hiding back here, Fëanor?” The voice, dark with humor, tightened all the muscles in Fëanor’s back.

He turned his head slowly to raise a brow at Melkor. “If I am, then that should have been your first clue I would not welcome your presence.” What had his father been thinking inviting this slime?

Melkor’s mouth curled about a smirk. “I could not leave you all alone, now could I?” He stepped closer, dark eyes fastened on Fëanor’s face, voice dropping low, creating an air of intimacy between them. “Have you been avoiding me, Fëanor? I rather think you have.” 

Fëanor’s fingers tightened about his wine glass. He hated the sound of his name upon that forked-tongue. Melkor caressed it, drawing it out into something obscene. 

“Avoid you? Hardly. But I forget you exist quite easily, so you will have to excuse my not seeking you out.”

“Ah, Fëanor, the things you do with that tongue of yours.” Melkor laughed softly, dark eyes glimmering. “Do not let it get carried away. Remember what I told you when first we met. You do not want to refuse my hand in friendship.”

Fëanor tilted up his chin. “Do not presume to tell me what to do.”

Melkor’s leaned in closer, and as Fëanor refused to give the Vala an inch, the Vala’s breath hit his lips. Fëanor tasted spicy darkness and smelt the deep places of the Earth. “I have been reading your writings. You are quite prolific. And bold. Have my illustrious kin come calling at your door yet with a summons to Valmar?”

Fëanor’s eyes hooded. “You wish me to tremble in my boots, terrified of the Valar’s retaliation so that I come crawling to you for protection? I am interested in seeing how that works out for you.”

“Hmm, no.” Melkor’s hand landed on Fëanor’s holding the wine glass. Melkor’s fingers caressed the tips of Fëanor’s. Fëanor drew his hand back, repulsed, leaving the glass in Melkor’s hold. Melkor’s smiled and brought the glass up, placing his mouth over the spot Fëanor’s had touched, and sipped. 

“This is a pathetic attempt at seduction.”

Melkor pulled the glass back from his mouth. “Seduction? Oh, Fëanor. I do not need to seduce you. If I wanted you bent over for me, I could have you whenever I wanted. This is just a bit of fun.”

Fëanor’s eyes ignited. “I would like to see you try.”

“Would you now?” Melkor raised a brow. “I had no idea you were so eager for me.”

“You will never have me.” Fëanor spun on his heel, hair snapping out to fling against Melkor’s cheek, blowing across the Vala’s face. 

He started to stalk away when a hand snatched his wrist. Fëanor whirled, jerking his skin out from under the Vala’s. “How dare you touch me?”

Melkor dropped the wine glass. It shattered on the stones, but not one head turned at the sound. Fëanor’s gaze flickered around. His eyes, more sharply attuned to Power than any other Elf’s, could just pick up the shimmer of some spell about them. Melkor grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him back against one of the pillars lining the wall.

“You do not walk away from me, Elf.” Melkor’s eyes swirled with darkness, voice a hiss of Power digging like fishhooks into Fëanor’s skin.

Fëanor’s hands locked on the Vala’s wrists and jammed his thumbs into the soft insides until Melkor released him. Fëanor took a wary step back, keeping his eyes on the Vala. Melkor watched him back, all smiles wiped away. He tracked Fëanor like a predator its prey. 

“Afraid of me? You should be, Elf. I wield Power you cannot even being to comprehend. And yet,” Melkor’s voice dropped soft, slithering over the air to Fëanor like a snake’s belly against stones. “All this Power I hold at my fingertips could be wielded not against you, but beside you.” Melkor opened his palm and a flame of pure white light rose from his skin, twirling and dancing in the air, spinning shapes and flickering through a rainbow of colors. “I could show you beauty unimagined. I could give you the world.”

Fëanor lifted his chin. “I am no dog to go begging after the scraps of Power. Everything I need I can fashion with my own hands and mind. You have not even begun to grasp the greatness to which I will ascend.”

“Yes, you could be great. At my side.” Melkor took a step closer, and Fëanor could not take one back lest it be a retreat. “You would be glorious, seated at my right hand. Anything your heart desired would be yours.”

Fëanor laughed, the sound fey. “Do you take me for a fool? You would have me a clever plaything!”

“And what are you now? What are your ‘great’ people but the playthings of lesser gods then I?”

Fëanor’s lip curled. “I am no one’s plaything, least of all yours.”

“You are theirs; you just cannot see it yet. Where is that greatness, Fëanor, when you are blind and deaf to the Valar’s thoughts? You cannot see what they do in secret. Your eye cannot even pierce a petty sea to keep watch on the lands of the Firstborn’s inheritance. What have the Valar wrought in them, do you wonder? No, your mind has only stretched as long as your limited sight. You are a child playing at vision.” 

Melkor brushed passed him. His eyes met Fëanor’s, secrets not for Fëanor lurking in their depths. Fëanor hated that look, hated the snake who’d given it to him.

Fëanor walked away, breaking the spell-circle as he stepped free of it. He would prove his greatness and laugh in Melkor’s face when he did. There would be no secrets deep enough, no distance far enough his eyes could not reach, even into Endor itself, he would seek the truth. 

Fëanor’s mind whirled, a new creation taking shape within it. It would be his greatest yet. A device that could throw down the boundary of distance and ascend the heights of mountains, seeing all, knowing all, and it would be Fëanor who brought it into being.

*

Fëanor’s hands cradled the crystal orb. It swirling like a night sky caught in a storm, but in its center pulsed a flame of Power; the Power Fëanor’s skill had fed, drop by careful drop, into the stone. A delicate work, but not a tedious one, not for him. 

He wiped the sheen of sweat off his brow, and settled the Seeing-stone upon the base he’d crafted for it. He would make more, this was only the first. His ambitions leapt ahead, imagining more powerful ones. When he had perfected the making of a Palantíri, this stone would be but a lesser next to the greatness he would craft into being.

Fëanor’s fingers lingered on the perfect sphere, running over the crystal’s smoothness. A flash of vision hit him like a hand plunging deep into his heart, shaking him to his bones and leaving him gasping for breath. He saw Darkness roll over the land like a monstrous wave crashing in from the sea and swallowing light like a wolf devouring a corpse. Even the stars blotted out, and when the wave drew back, the Light of the Two Trees had been snuffed out.

Fëanor sucked in air as his spirit settled back into his body. His eyes turned to look out the window of his workroom, south, towards the Trees. A vision, one he would not ignore. Not all foresight came to pass, but preparation was the best defense. He would find a way to capture the Tree Light, to preserve it for his people’s future, his sons,’ himself. 

Fëanor’s chest swelled with the challenge, blood singing. He would cup light in his hands, hold it, touch it, just as he’d dreamed of doing as a child. This was what he had been made for, this work, his greatest.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I head-canon that Celebrimbor’s father-name was Curufinwë (which is Curufin and Fëanor’s father-names). This is not my original idea; I have read it other places as well. I think Celebrimbor went by his father-name in childhood, and up until his youth when his ambition had him wanting to make a name for himself. In this story I will be calling Celebrimbor Curufinwë, as having two Curufin’s running around is just too confusing :)
> 
> Edit: it has been brought to my attention that it is Celebrimbor's mother-name that is unknown and Celebrimbor is actually his father-name. Ah, well, I still like the idea of Curufin calling his son (his first born son in his mind at that time) Curufinwë. So for this story either Curufin gave Celebrimbor a second father-name or Celebrimbor is an epessë.

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 16

Curufin was dressed in the morning’s light. He stood with his back to a window. The light pouring in haloed Curufin’s shoulders and caught like jewels in his glossy black hair. Laurelin’s gold spidered across the rolling foothills behind him, a slow creep of dawn this many leagues north of Valmar.

Fëanor’s fingers twitched for a paintbrush, every bone in his body singing to capture this moment inside the strokes of paint on canvas. Beauty should never be wasted. But now was not the time. He set aside the impulse towards art as he’d set aside a thousand other small moments that lived only in his memory. He’d had to grow used to suppressing the artist and visionary inside him and let the father rule. His son needed a word with his father, not the vision he made standing there to be set down on paper.

“You needed to speak with me?” Fëanor rose from his seat behind the desk, circling to bring Curufin’s eyes out of the bright shadows of light.

Curufin’s eyes carried anxiousness and his shoulder stiffness. His hands hung like dead birds at his sides –devoid of the animation Fëanor never got tired of seeing pick them up and spin a hundred dreams to the rhythm of a leaping mind.

“Yes, Father.” Curufin licked his lips. He met Fëanor’s eyes, his own hunting over his father’s face. He found what he sought, and his mouth lifted in the edge of a smile as the tension rolled out of his muscles. He took in a breath and said with a smoothness of address to rival Maedhros’ in confidence: “I have come to tell you I have asked Elweth to marry me, and she has agreed.”

Fëanor took a moment to roll his reply over his tongue, tasting it for anything that could cut, even by mistake. “I am happy for you that she accepted, though I was not aware your affections turned towards her. But you are only sixteen. I want your happiness, but, my dear, you are so young.” And this would break Caranthir’s heart.

Curufin had his confidence back and kept his shoulders straight. “You were not of age when you married Mother. Nor did you love her. You did not even desire her.”

Fëanor’s mouth twitched. Ah, Curufin’s clever tongue. He would use the best arguments against Fëanor to get what he wanted. But this was not one of the games of words Fëanor played to wet his sons wits against each other. This was a mistake in the making.

Fëanor took a pace to the desk, turning his shoulder to Curufin and the light. He fingered the edge, and tapped his two longest fingers against the wood once, twice. He slid a glance back at Curufin. Curufin’s mouth set itself in a natural line, no tension in his jaw, but his eyes were a trip from distress. Curufin was so young. Fëanor could still wield his silence like a knife and win any debate, any argument with Curufin because Curufin would never stop fearing –in the back of his heart, a voice never lured mute—that the wrong word could drive Fëanor away. Fëanor understood. Of course he did. Their hearts were twins.

“Do you love her?”

The girl Curufin had chosen was the daughter of two of Fëanor’s own craftsmen, and had known Curufin all her life. They had even shared a childhood friendship. She had followed her parents into the arts, but her hands turned to the finer crafts: brush and pen. She’d published a small book of poetry, hadn’t she? Fëanor had not taken much note; it had not been to his taste. But he recalled some of her paintings at the Festival of Color. Her work had shown promise. She was young yet, only three years Curufin’s senior. But with such tender years as theirs, three years could feel like the difference of a decade.

Curufin’s lashes dropped down over his eyes, weight shifting on his feet. “No. But we are familiar with each other. She is one of ours. And…she loves me.”

Ah.

A memory came of the girl: dark curls bouncing and eyes shining as she followed Curufin about, trying to hide her eagerness and blushes when he looked her way, but failing like all young things do at hiding their hearts. Maybe she did love him, maybe it was infatuation, but Curufin longed ever to be loved. He chose her for her love, hungry for it.

“I wish you to have more then familiarity and a love accepted but not returned in the one you choose to share your life with.” Fëanor left the desk, closing the distance between them until Curufin had to tilt his gaze up to meet his father’s for he was only sixteen and not of full maturity. “I want nothing less than to see you in love.”

Curufin’s mouth dipped down, brow creasing. Fëanor reached out, taking Curufin’s hand and halting that train of thought before it could take root. No. He was not disappointed in Curufin.

“Do you regret marrying Mother even though you did not love her?” Curufin dared to speak of the woman banished from Fëanor’s tongue. Fëanor did not talk of the one who had abandoned them.

“No,” Fëanor’s voice dropped soft between them. He squeezed Curufin’s hand, bringing his son’s eyes back up to his own. He pressed all the love in his heart in a trail blazing like a comet’s path across his eyes. “I would not have you if I had not married her.”

Curufin’s fingers curled about Fëanor’s, tight, fitting like the threads in a perfect tapestry. His face picked up that animation Fëanor lived to see painted like the sweeps of a cardinal’s wings into Curufin’s high cheekbones and shinning in his eyes like Laurelin’s light on polished crystal. “I dream of sons of my own. And maybe a daughter for the House of Fëanor. One with silver hair –like Grandmother’s—and clever fingers upon a needle. And I want…she says she loves me, Father. She says she loves me.”

Fëanor picked up Curufin’s empty hand, holding both of his son’s hands between his, thumbs brushing across the soft skin on the back of Curufin’s hands and feeling the calluses from forge-work on the palms. “Then she will love you still in a few years, and those children will be waiting for you.”

Curufin’s mouth compressed, and he jerked his head as he yanked his hands free. “You do not think I can do it, do you? You think I will make a terrible father and a terrible husband and—”

“No.” Fëanor took Curufin’s shoulders in his hands. He ran his hands up the strong slopes to cup Curufin’s collarbone, thumbs in the hollows of Curufin’s neck, pressed into the skin where the simple white work-shirt Curufin wore, already stained with soot from the hours he’s spent in the forge, had fallen open. When thoughts preyed on Curufin’s mind, he kept his hands busy to drown them out. Fëanor was just the same.

“No,” Fëanor said again. “I think only that you have much still to experience and accomplish for yourself before you start a family.”

“You were able to work and raise us at the same time.”

“I was not truly able to do both, not when all of you were young. I had to choose, and I chose my sons. I put aside my work and my ambitions for our people so that my greatest work –my children—would not be damaged by my neglect. Yes, I worked and wrote still, but not as I once had. I call it no sacrifice. Now only the twins are yet children, and I have picked up my work in earnest again.”

“Can I not do the same? Everything will still be there waiting for me when my sons are grown, just as it was for you.” Curufin paused, eyes so full of earnestness and hope for what he saw in a marriage that Fëanor feared was only an illusion. “I want this, Father.”

Fëanor’s heart doubted, but he could not refuse Curufin. Not Curufin who could be destroyed with a handful of words from Fëanor’s mouth. Not Curufin who Fëanor saw right down into the fragility of the heart of, and into the hunger for love at the root of him.

But Caranthir. If only Curufin could wait just a little longer, just enough to see there was already one who had loved him as this girl could never love him. If only his heart had turned to the one he’d once called best friend, as Caranthir’s had. But Fëanor had never caught Curufin looking back.

“Very well,” Fëanor’s hands dropped, running the line of his son’s muscled arms to capture his wrists. He could still feel the slenderness of a youth’s bones under the loop of his fingers. “But I ask that you wait three months, until your seventeenth Birthing Day. If, after that length of time, you still desire this marriage, then I will not stand in your way, and I will be the first to wish you joy.”

Curufin acquiesced to the delay, and Fëanor spent a few more minutes reassuring his son of his love before he excused himself. He strode down the corridors of their temporary home, throwing doors open in his search, passing Masters and servants alike as his search took him outside into the network of homes, workshops, and forges. He had to find Caranthir. Caranthir couldn’t learn of Curufin’s betrothal with his other brothers. He had to hear it in private, or disaster could strike in the form of Caranthir’s lightning-quick temper.

He found his son in solitude, no uncommon thing for Caranthir who grew even more irritated with people then Fëanor did. Caranthir had commandeered one of the workrooms, and had designs and piles of sketches and calculations spread out on the central table dominating the space.

He held up a hand when the door pushed open, not looking up from the work he hunched over. Fëanor approached on soft-stepping feet, knowing better then to lean over Caranthir’s shoulder while his son’s mind flew through calculations, quill scratching at a frantic pace. Curufin would have welcomed Fëanor’s attention, and soaked up a chance to run ideas by Fëanor, but Caranthir wanted to be left alone with his work.

Caranthir paused, quill poised in mid-air. Fëanor did not mistake this as permission to interrupt. Caranthir’s eyes peered out at the world unfocused, mind leaping behind. Fëanor’s gaze fell to the work as Caranthir began to twirl the quill absently through his fingers, feather tapping against his chin with the precise tempo of a drumbeat.

Fëanor picked up one of the top sketches, recognizing it as Curufin’s work immediately. He smiled to see Curufin and Caranthir’s friendship repaired enough for this, even if it had not reached its former intimacy. Caranthir was still the first person Curufin turned to for a second opinion on his work when he doubted himself; Fëanor was the one he wanted to show off his finished product to for inspection and praise. Curufin’s confidence in his linguistic skills always outweighed his assurance in his creative talents.

Caranthir tossed down his quill, and brushed aside the parchment scrawled with lines of jumping calculations. Caranthir’s mind had skipped so many steps, leaping ahead, that few could have followed his work through their conclusions.

“Well?” Caranthir had not looked up, but dragged a fresh sheet of parchment over.

“How have you found his work?” Fëanor delayed.

Caranthir made a noncommittal sound in the back of this throat. “Not done yet.”

Fëanor smiled. Caranthir would not praise or condemn until he had calculated every last angle. The smile slipped away as the reason for his coming pressed upon him again. If only it was not one son breaking the heart of another son. He had no one to fight against as he watched Caranthir yearn and struggle these last two years. He had only two sons he would cut himself open and stuff all their pain into the gaps if only he could take it from them.

“Caranthir…” His son’s head snapped up at the sound of his voice. Too soft. Fëanor sighed, and rounded the table’s corner to settle a hand on Caranthir’s shoulder. Caranthir watched him warily. “Curufin came to me today. He has asked a girl –Elweth—to marry him.” Every muscle in Caranthir’s face froze. Fëanor hurried on, “He does not love her though. He is young, and seeks something he will not find in her. But you, my dear, have what he seeks. You must go quickly now and tell him of your heart before it is too late—”

Caranthir shoved himself from the chair, shaking Fëanor off him. “No.” He turned his back on his father, trying to hide his shaking hands.

“Caranthir, please,” Fëanor took his son’s stiff shoulders under his hands. “You must tell him of your love, you must. If you do not, you will regret it.”

Caranthir twisted out of Fëanor’s hold, snapping around, mouth a snarl and eyes struggling to blast all the pain away with wrath. “Tell him I want to fuck him every time I look at him, hum? Is that what I should say? Should I tell him and watch the disgust consume any love he had left for me? And know that that fear in his eyes was him thinking about everything I wanted to do to him in the dark?”

“Caranthir, stop this. You know that Curufin will never be disgusted with you.”

“Do I?” Caranthir threw back.

“Yes, you do. Just as you know you will not be able to watch him marry that girl without it killing you. Caranthir,” Fëanor made to pick up his son’s hand, but Caranthir jerked his hand away. “Do not do this to yourself. Do not do it to him. Tell him. Trust him enough to love you.”

Caranthir’s jaw clenched, and he jerked his eyes away. “He will never love me as I love him. I’ve known it for a long time now. And you know it too.”

“You do not know that,” Fëanor whispered, fingering brushing softness against Caranthir’s forearm, touch light enough his son did not throw him off.

Caranthir’s eyes flashed back to him. “Yes, I do.” His face hardened. “So don’t try to force-feed me your pretty fantasies. He is never going to love me. He is never going to love me!”

Fëanor’s fingers tightened their hold about his son’s shaking arm. “He will always love you. Even if it is not with desire. But you will never know if it could be more if you never speak your heart.”

Caranthir snarled, tearing from Fëanor’s touch. “Enough of this. I have work to do.”

Fëanor did not give up. He would not be pushed away, but he could be shut out, and Caranthir did just that when Fëanor kept coming back and back again to hound him into speaking his heart. Caranthir did not listen, but he never locked the door against his father. And as much pain as his anger tried to hide, he did not have to fear his father would betray his trust. Fëanor would never tell Curufin in Caranthir’s place, no matter how he longed to.

Fëanor’s people packed up and left the settlement they’d raised in the North. It had been ideal for secrecy as Fëanor delved into the deepest nature of light, but with the Silmarils’ completion, he wanted Finwë’s presence at the first marriage of one of his sons. His people returned to their settlement outside Tirion, and his family broke apart when Maedhros sought Trion and the promise of Fingon. Maglor went at his brother’s shoulder as he always did.

Curufin married a week after his seventeenth Birthing Day. If Elweth had not conceived shortly after, the marriage would not have lasted the handful of years it did. Curufin had chosen her for love, but it was a child’s love in the end; one that could not withstand the weathering of marriage.

Elweth was not able to slide into the Fëanorions’ household with anything like ease. It was like trying to fit a square block into a circular hole. The love died first, and then the girl changed. They’d been too young when they’d married. They’d traveled most of Valinor but seen little of the world in truth.

Curufin was seventeen when he became a father. And Curufinwë was no older then the twins when his mother left him like Nerdanel had left them all.

As Fëanor had feared, Caranthir could not handle his pain without reaching for anger. The mended friendship between Curufin and Caranthir collapsed under the weight of Caranthir’s grief. Caranthir could not bear to see Curufin with another, and he lashed out at every glimmer of their happiness, all his pain spat up in vitriol aimed right at Curufin’s heart.

*

His grandson’s cry brought Fëanor out of his chambers. He did not need to pause to pull on the decency of clothing, for restless thoughts had kept him burning a candle even past the midnight hour. He made his way through shadowed corridors. Telperion’s silver light cut swaths through the darkness where it spilled in through the unshuttered windows, striping the stones like a tiger’s back.

Curufinwë kept his parents up at all hours. He was as fussy as Caranthir had been as a child, forever hungry and grouchy, and as needy for the arms of his parents as Curufin had been. At least he was not a screamer. Maglor’s lungs, even as a baby, had shaken the window panes.

Fëanor eased open the door to Curufinwë’s nursery. Curufin was there ahead of him, and had scooped Curufinwë from his crib. His face showed strained, and his voice scraped rough with the fog of sleep as he patted his son’s back, trying unsuccessfully to hush the cries.

Curufin looked up at Fëanor’s entrance. He couldn’t muster a smile. Circles like the petals of dark flowers pressed under his eyes, and the lines about his mouth and brow pinched deep with too many sleepless nights.

“Here, let me take him.” Fëanor held out his arms. “I was already up, might as well make myself useful. You should get some rest.”

Curufin surrendered Curufinwë with a frown, now empty arms coming up to cross on his chest as he watched Fëanor settle Curufinwë with ease against his chest, cupping the baby’s bottom as his other hand ran the tinny line of the infant’s spine. Curufinwë sighed into him, and laid his downy head down on his grandfather’s shoulder. His cries tapered off into soft breathing.

Fëanor smiled, enjoying the feel of a little one in his arms again. He’d missed the sweet scent of a baby, and the perfect trust of their surrender. Curufinwë’s tinny fingers curled about his shirt, mouth opening and closing as he sought instinctively for his mother’s breast.

Fëanor kissed the soft back curls, and watched eyes the exact same shade as Curufin’s –a stormy grey—slide closed. He looked up at Curufin with a smile. The smile faded at the look in Curufin’s eyes.

“Would you like to hold him again?”

Curufin looked away. “No. I do not wish to wake him. Just lay him down.”

Fëanor lowed Curufinwë with care into the crib, but the loss of his grandfather’s shoulder had Curufinwë stirring back into wakefulness and a soft fussing starting up again. Fëanor drew back, allowing Curufin to take the lead with his son.

Curufin tried arranging the blanket, tucking it securely into the baby’s sides. He tried the rattle and the cotton-stuffed rabbit, enticing Curufinwë with them, but the baby would have none of it.

Curufin sighed heavily as Curufinwë’s cries picked up volume. His shoulders hunched, fingers curling into the raised side of the crib.

Fëanor took the crib’s other side and smoothed a hand over the baby’s brow and back through the curls. “It will get easier with practice. Have patience with yourself.”

Curufin’s head jerked. “Why will he not be silent? Why does…why is it only me who he does not want?”

Fëanor reached across and touched his son’s shoulder. Curufin looked up at the touch, face open and achingly young. He was only seventeen. No one should have the responsibilities of fatherhood at seventeen. “It only seems that way because your brothers had practice. You cannot compare yourself to them, every one of them had a hand in the twins and your raising.”

Curufin’s face did not shed its distress. “But Elweth has no younger siblings, and even she can sooth Curufinwë. He prefers her –everyone—to me.”

Fëanor’s hand slipped up to cradle the curve of his son’s jaw. “It will grow easier in time. Trust me. Your arms will know just how to hold him. Your ear will hear exactly what he wants. Everything will come in time, and when he smiles there will be a special smile just for you.”

Curufin looked down at his fussing son. His hand slipped beneath the blanket to rest on Curufinwë’s breast, feeling the soft, bird bones. Curufinwë’s face screwed up, and he began to bawl. Curufin’s hand fled as if burned.

“It is all right. You told him you were there, and he is telling you–”

“That he wants someone else.”

“No, Curufin,” Fëanor captured Curufin’s arm, the muscles bunched tight under the tunic sleeve.

Curufin’s head rose, his eyes like a storm-ravaged sky. “I do not think I can do this, Father.” His voice broke. He swallowed, Fëanor made a hushing sound, heart pieced as with a dagger. Curufin shook his head, voice tripping and cracking but plowing on. “I do not know what I am doing, and…and I am scared. I am going to mess this up. I make so many mistakes. I do not have your talent, or—”

“Stop.” Fëanor’s hand tightened about Curufin’s arm. “I have told you before, and I will tell you again: it is your eyes which seek an impossible perfection that are marking you short. You are a Master in your craft at only seventeen, and none can argue you are already one of the leading artistries in all of Valinor. You have a talent with languages that puts Tirion’s greatest scholars to shame.”

“Curufin,” Fëanor held his son’s eyes, wishing he could banish the doubt he found in them even now. “It is not about the greatness of your deeds. That is not the measure of who you are. You are so much more than your skills in the forge or the knowledge collected in your head. It is not about being great, Curufin, it is about the kind of man you are. And you are a good one.”

“I am not a good man. You love me and so cannot see it, but I feel the truth, and others see it too. Curufinwë can feel it already. And Elweth does not love me anymore. It should not be a surprise she grew disillusioned with me so quickly though, should it? Mother does not love me anymore either. I heard what she said when she left. She said she was not leaving anything worth staying for behind, and she looked right at me. Right at me. And Caranthir…Caranthir hates me too.”

Fëanor circled the crib, rushing to take his son in his arms. Curufin let himself be drawn against his father’s chest. He never ran from Fëanor. Of all Fëanor’s sons, Curufin was the one always clinging back, every time, never once shrinking away to hide himself. He let Fëanor see all of him.

“You are good. I am blessed, so blessed, to call such a son as you mine. I would have no other for son before you.” Curufin shuddered in his arms, fingers clinging to the back of Fëanor’s shirt, knotting in and not letting go. “Your brother loves you. He loves you. It is hard for him to show it, but it is there in his eyes when he thinks you are not looking. He has buried himself deep, but that is about Caranthir, not you. It is not a fault with you.”

“No, he despises me. I see it every time he looks at him.”

“He does not. I swear it to you, he does not.”

Curufin subside for a moment, resting in his father’s arms. Fëanor ran his hands down the black waterfall of hair and strong back. But Curufinwë’s cries, while petering back down into whimpers, had not ceased. “I do not know how to be a father.”

“No one does in the beginning.” Fëanor turned his lips into Curufin’s brow. “We all make mistakes. I made as many as any other new father. Please do not doubt yourself so.” His words meant more than fatherhood.

But Curufin said, as if defying his own judgment of himself: “Show me what to do.”

Fëanor eased his son back, and took Curufin’s face in his hands, holding him with his thumbs on Curufin’s jaw and the delicate curves of his ears under his fingers. “Bring your son over to the couch.”

Fëanor released Curufin, and stepped back to watch Curufin scoop Curufinwë up. Curufin shifted Curufinwë into the cradle of his elbow, the hold full of uncertainty. Curufinwë started squalling. With a pinched brow but determined mouth, Curufin carried Curufinwë over to the couch. Fëanor slipped in at his back, kneeling to give himself the height to slip his arms about his son’s shoulders and gently reposition Curufinwë in Curufin’s arms.

Curufinwë did not quiet easily. Babies could sense the awkwardness in the arms holding them. Curufinwë wanted to rest in sure arms that he could feel cherished him by the way they held him close. Curufin’s love was not easy to feel when his hands fumbled, and his body refused to relax into the hold and allow his arms to mold into a perfect fit about the baby.

“You will not break him.” Fëanor took his son’s hand and guided it down Curufinwë’s back. “He is not a butterfly, and his bones are not hollow like a bird’s, for all their softness. He wants to feel your confidence.”

Curufin’s head turned to look back at him. If Fëanor could have taken ever hurt that had sewn themselves into Curufin’s eyes and pounded them out like metal under his hammer, he would have. “Why will he not rest in my arms?” The question was not bathed in despair this time.

“Give him a chance to get to know the feel of you better.”

Curufin tried for long moments, using his voice at Fëanor’s encouragement to speak softly to his son. But still Curufinwë fussed.

“He might be hungry,” Fëanor offered. “Give him your finger.”

Curufin shifted the baby from his shoulder. Fëanor’s wince went unseen as Curufin almost forgot to support the delicate neck, hand flying up at the last moment with a curse. Curufinwë was not pleased. Curufin settled the baby in the cook of his elbow again, and offered a finger.

“He does not understand. Put it inside his mouth, and see if he looks for it when you take it away. That will tell you he might be hungry.”

Curufin did as instructed. Curufinwë’s little mouth closed with fierce intensity over his father’s fingers for a few sucks, before pulling away. Curufinwë’s fingers curled into fists, face reddened, as tears started leaking out with the power of his cries.

A sound caught in the back of Curufin’s throat. He twisted, and shoved Curufinwë at Fëanor. “Here, take him. He obviously will not be happy until he is away from me.”

“Curufin,” Fëanor sighed, but took the baby. Curufinwë quieted almost at once. Curufin looked away, but not before Fëanor saw the way his mouth trembled. “It will get better.” The words felt as useless as iron beaten past the breaking point.

Curufin’s shoulders thrust up, and his back bowed like a hill as he dropped his head into his hands. Fëanor freed one hand from the baby, and used it to sooth down that miserable line of spine and muscle. His son was too young to be a father.

After a moment of unsteady breathing, Curufin’s shivering skeleton betraying his fight against tears, his voice came muffled through his hands: “She is going to leave. Like Mother left. What am I going to do? Curufinwë…I cannot…I cannot raise him alone.”

“You will not be alone. I will be here. And your brothers will be here. We will not let you fall.”

Curufin took in a shuddering breath. “It was not supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be…I wanted…”

“I know.” Fëanor’s hand rode the line of Curufin’s back to rest on his opposite shoulder so that Fëanor leant in close enough to drop his cheek into the curve of Curufin’s back, Curufinwë a quiet, sweet buddle in his arm. “The fault is mine. I should have insisted you wait another year. I should have—”

“No. I was so sure I knew what I wanted. I did not want to wait. And if I had Curufinwë would not exist.”

Fëanor closed his eyes, and tilted his cheek deeper into his son’s shirt and the muscle underneath. He did not say Elweth might not leave –she would. He did not say he wanted to see her eyes reflecting the pain in Curufin’s own –that would help nothing. He did not say Curufin should never have married her –Curufin was right, the cost was worth Curufinwë’s existence.

“I did not love her, but I thought –I hoped…you and Mother seemed happy together for the most part when I was young. I thought respect was enough. We could have been friends, like Mother and you, and had many children together. But nothing turned out like I thought it would.” Curufin shifted, and Fëanor lifted his head for Curufin to straighten.

Curufin turned, and his eyes fell with longing on Curufinwë rested in Fëanor’s arms with the naturalness of Fëanor’s own child. He looked away. “Curufinwë will be the only child.”

That was for the best. Children should not be brought into a doomed marriage by design. But Fëanor warned, “Children can come without plan.”

Curufin laughed, the sound twisted in Fëanor’s gut. Curufin snapped it off like a dry twig before it could awaken Curufinwë. “There is no fear of that. Elweth finds me unsatisfactory in bed. She has made sure to point out the many places I am lacking as a husband.” Curufin raked a hand down his face. “Sex is not how I imaged it would be. But then nothing about this marriage has been the way I thought it would be. I just…” He shrugged, turning a helpless look up at his father. “I thought there would be more passion, that she would be more…demanding, more…something.” He shook his head with a self-mocking slice of smile.

Fëanor frowned. “There is nothing lacking in you. Have you thought that it is her that is missing what you need, not the other way around?”

Curufin’s mouth smoothed into a genuine smile. “Well, you are my father. I do not expect you to think me wanting. Even when I am.”

“There is nothing lacking in you,” Fëanor braided the full confidence of the truth into his words. “You are perfect.”

Curufin looked away.

“No, look at me.” Curufin did. “Look at your son in my arms.” Curufin did. “Now tell me what is lacking in him.”

Curufin’s voice fell soft. “Nothing. He is perfect.”

“Yes.” Fëanor touched Curufin’s hair, fingers slipping in to rest against his son’s skull, thumb feeling the hollow dip of bones behind his ear. “Do you see now? Do you understand how you are perfect in my eyes? How I would never have you any other way?”

Curufin swallowed, eyes dark and glittering with the sheen of tears as he met Fëanor’s. “I love you, Father.”

“Oh, Curufin, I love you so much. So very much.” Fëanor drew Curufin to him and pressed a kiss into his temple, just there, at the corner of his eye. Curufin’s arms came around him, and his head fell to Fëanor’s shoulder as his side melted into Fëanor’s side in a perfect fit, as if he were still twelve years old and climbing into his father’s lap to be bathed in loved.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double post today!

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 17

Fëanor slid a glance up from his work to Curufin. Curufin sat at the worktable across from him, the pieces of Curufinwë’s new toy spread out before him. He’d assembled the pieces of the horse: four legs into their joints that allowed the horse to amble along, and a neck that could bend to graze. Curufin had fit the rider’s knees to thighs and thighs to hip sockets, but from the frown on his face, was not pleased with the fit of the arms.

Curufin slipped the little bow into the rider’s hands, curling the fingers in a grip, and going through the motion of drawing the bowstring back again and again. Each attempt hardened the set of his mouth.

Fëanor left his work and circled around to Curufin. Curufin tossed the rider down, the hollow metal body hitting the wooden table with a thunk.

“May I see?”

Curufin shrugged. “If you like. The wrist joints are all wrong.”

“Hmm.” Fëanor picked up the toy. Curufin had spared no detail. Nothing but perfection for Curufinwë. The rider had on a pair of buckskin leggings and a leather jerkin with a hunter-green tunic underneath. Curufin had even stitched a tinny line of golden embroidery into the tunic’s neckline and hem. He’d painted the face to make it as life-like as possible, and silver-blond hair donated by Celegorm served as the doll’s hair.

“It is beautiful.”

Curufin looked up at the praise, face a war between a flush of pleasure and doubt. “The wrist sockets do not have enough movement to allow for a secure draw—”

Fëanor maneuvered the toy’s arms into pulling the bowstring back with an arrow fitted to the string. He could find no flaw with the work. He raised a brow at Curufin.

“No, you see, it is not secure enough.” Curufin took the toy from him and placed it on the horse’s back. The rider molded to the horse’s flanks like the work of art it was. “If Curufinwë wants Celegorm to shoot from horseback the workmanship will fail him.” Curufin demonstrated the way Toy Celegorm’s arms couldn’t hold the shooting position when Curufin trotted the horse across the table.

“Stiffer joints would have negated flexibility. One had to be chosen above the other, and you chose flexibility. It is impossible to have both.” Fëanor rested a hand on Curufin’s shoulder, bringing his son’s face up to him again. “Curufinwë will love it.”

Curufin’s eyes still wrestled with doubt. He did not speak his doubts, but Fëanor did not need the words to know his son’s mind. Even from a young age, Curufin had doubted every work of his hand –setting it beside Fëanor’s and finding it wanting.

“You will see when you gift it to him that he will not wish for another toy. You will see when he carries it with him into every moment of play, and to table and bath and bed.” Fëanor smiled with fond memories. “Come. Let us go to him now, together.”

“Thank you, Father.” The corner of Curufin’s mouth tilted up in a precious smile. There had been a famine of such smiles since Curufin’s marriage had proved a disaster.

Curufin had not stinted on the carrier for the gift. He’d carved beauty into a wooden box. It resembled a midnight sky. The lid was forested with star constellations overlaid with silver set into a sky so deep a blue it looked black in this light. He laid the horse and rider into the velvet bed of the box, and gently closed the lid. Picking up his gift, he said, “Curufinwë is with Elweth in her chambers.”

Fëanor followed his son from the workroom and down the well-trod path from the forges and workshops, back to the house proper. Fëanor paused to greet those of his people they passed on the way, but most other craftsmen were still deep in their work at this hour of mid-morning. Curufin offered words beside him when he had some to give, each one poised or passionate depending on the subject. Not one revealing even a flicker of self-doubt.

Curufin did not wear himself out in the open as he once had. Curufin did not trust others with his inner-self anymore –not even their own people.

Curufinwë’s nursery had been placed directly between his parents’ rooms. The nursery, holding a door to both parents’ chambers, was the only thing connecting them, just as Curufinwë was the only thing still holding their marriage together.

The marriage would not last many more years. Elweth spent long weeks away in Tirion, wishing to be free of her marriage, and perhaps pretending she already was with a young man or two. Fëanor had not asked if Curufin was aware of any lovers. It did not matter, for what Elweth did in Tirion did not matter to Curufin. He smiled more when she was away, taking the burden of the reminder of their marriage with her.

When they were ready to admit to each other that it was over, Elweth would depart and never again be counted among the House of Fëanor. But Curufin and Elweth were young yet, Curufin only nineteen, and they both had their pride. Neither wished to be the first to voice defeat.

Curufin paused before his wife’s door, not letting himself in, but knocking and waiting for permission to enter. Curufin was so used to the lack of intimacy he did not cast an uncomfortable glance over his shoulder at Fëanor.

His wife called an ‘enter,’ and Curufin strode in with Fëanor following. Curufin and Fëanor’s eyes lighted on Curufinwë first. The little one knelt before a low table and scribbled with fierce intensity with his favorite set of colors. A line dug into his brows, and he did not look up at their entrance. Nothing could distract him from his masterpiece.

Elweth looked at them through the mirror of her vanity. She pulled the hairpin from her mouth and secured her last curl in an updo fit for a queen, before rising with a whisper of silk to face them. “Good. You’re here.” She smoothed down her dress, hands pale and fine-boned, perfectly shaped for the deftness of her preferred art. “I have plans in Tirion. I leave within the hour. Do not expect me back before the week’s end at the earliest. I will send word when my plans are decided.”

“I see.” Curufin’s voice and face revealed nothing more than he would grace an acquaintance.

Curufinwë’s head popped up at the new voice. He found his daddy, but it was Fëanor his eyes settled on and Fëanor’s presence that had him snatching up his masterpiece and flying over with a cry. “Papa, Papa!” Curufinwë smacked into Fëanor’s legs, little arms wrapping around in a hug, and face tilted up in a beaming smile.

Fëanor’s slid a glance to Curufin’s face, though he already knew what he would find. Fëanor deserved to witness his son’s pain. It was he who allowed Curufin to marry too young to the wrong woman. Curufin fenced the yearning in his eyes as he watched his son. He would not let it paint his face like a streak of crimson before Elweth, but Fëanor saw. He always saw.

Fëanor lifted his foot a few inches off the floor, and Curufinwë grabbed on for a free ride. “Who is this little bird perched on my boot?” Fëanor’s hands settled thumbs-down on Curufinwë’s waist, and flipped him over as he lifted him high in the air. Curufinwë squealed with laughter, paper fluttering wildly.

“Is this my favorite grandson?” Fëanor scrutinized the grinning face above him, holding Curufinwë up towards the ceiling.

Curufinwë laughed, “It me, Papa, me!”

“So it is.” Fëanor lowed Curufinwë towards his chest, before sending him up again and out of his hands for a few inches of free flying that earned delighted laughter from the child. Fëanor brought Curufinwë in for a kiss, and settled him comfortably on his hip. “What is this you have?”

“Me daw-wing, Papa! See?” Curufinwë presented his masterpiece with a flush of pride.

Fëanor took the piece, and looked it over with a serious eye. “Ah, you have captured your vision magnificently. Is that a person I see hiding in there?”

Curufinwë pointed to the body with its massive head almost covered over in the scribbled clothing. The head had two dots for eyes and a mouth. Curufinwë already showed signs of his artisan blood to have started adding facial features at only two years. “That me, Papa!”

Fëanor grinned, pressing another kiss into his grandson’s brow. “Well done.” He dropped his mouth closer to Curufinwë’s ear. The little one’s eyes swiveled up huge and so like Curufin’s it hurt. “Do you want to show your daddy your drawing?”

Curufinwë slipped Curufin a shy glance, ducking his head into Fëanor’s shoulder when he found Curufin already watching him. Curufin had never taken his eyes off his son.

Fëanor rubbed the length of Curufinwë’s back. “You could say hello to your daddy. I think he wants to say hello back.”

Curufinwë curved his cheek out of Fëanor’s shoulder enough to peek a glance over at his father. “’Lo, Daddy.”

“Hello, Curufinwë.” Curufin took a single step closer to bring himself to Fëanor’s side.

Curufinwë watched his daddy come with wide, dark eyes. Curufin touched the side of Curufinwë’s head, fingertips just grazing in the silky darkness, before his hand slid down the shape of his son’s skull to the canal at the back of his neck, and further down to curve about the tinny shoulders. His touch never pressed into more than a brush of fingers.

Even after two years of fatherhood, Curufin still touched his son with reverence and caution, as if he couldn’t quite believe this creature existed, or that he had a son this perfect.

“I would like to see your drawing, if you wish to show it to me.”

Curufinwë turned a bashful smile into Fëanor’s shoulder, and nodded into the fabric. Fëanor passed the drawing over, and Curufinwë couldn’t resist peeking glances up to watch his father’s face as Curufin took his time examining the work.

Curufin lowered the paper and found Curufinwë’s anxious eyes. “You show the promise of great talent,” he said with seriousness.

Curufinwë could not understand the words’ meaning or read into the voice to find his father’s pleasure. His face crumpled, and his head buried in Fëanor’s shoulder, hiding, little fists grasping hold of his grandfather as he started crying.

“Shh, now.” Fëanor cupped Curufinwë’s head, holding the little one tighter. “Your daddy loved your drawing very much, he just said it in a grown-up way. Shh, little one.”

Fëanor met Curufin’s eyes as Curufinwë’s back shook under his hand. Curufin looked stricken.

“Honestly.” Elweth strode towards them, shooting Curufin a look. “I wonder at your intelligence sometimes, Curufin. I honestly do. Here, give him to me.”

Fëanor’s jaw clenched. “We are perfectly fine.” He turned to Curufin. “Here, you should take him.” Curufin’s face warred between longing and dread.

Fëanor pried Curufinwë away from his shoulder. “Your daddy wants to hold you.”

As Curufinwë’s eyes flickered to Curufin, Curufin put his face in order and found a strained smile for his son. Fëanor didn’t give Curufinwë or Curufin anymore time to think on it, and held Curufinwë out. The abruptness of the change distracted Curufinwë from his tears. His cheeks still carried the evidence of their trails, but only sniffling was left of the sobs.

Curufin still carried his present for Curufinwë. He stared at his son held out to him, and fumbled to tuck the box under his arm and take Curufinwë at the same time. Curufin had never quite shed that stiffness of limb and awkwardness of arms he’d held Curufinwë with as a newborn. Curufin had shied away from holding his son after those first few months in which the baby did not take to him. So much so that even after two years his son still hung from his arms as if the child didn’t belong there.

Curufin should have slipped Curufinwë onto his hip. Curufinwë would have settled there with ease. But Curufin held him against this chest, only the strength of his arm keeping Curufinwë from slipping to the floor. Curufinwë’s legs were too short to wrap about his father’s waist this way, so they were left dangling with his fingers clinging to his father’s shoulders.

Curufin tossed Fëanor a beseeching glance. He looked so young, so lost. Fëanor made to step forward and guide Curufinwë into a better position, but Elweth moved first. “Oh give that thing to me.” She pried the box from under Curufin’s arm. “I swear, sometimes, Curufin, it’s a wonder how you make it through the day without assistance.”

Fëanor’s nostrils flared, and he snatched Curufinwë’s gift from her hands. She gave him a startled look, only to step back from the fire in his eyes. “The next time I tell you we do not require your assistance, I expect you to listen.” His heel snapped around, heading for the door. “Come Curufin, we will leave your wife to her preparations.”

He heard her whisper a curse at his back, but only cared for the sound of Curufin’s step echoing his own. He headed for the solar in the next hall with the windows facing the wild woods. He held the door open for Curufin to carry Curufinwë through.

Curufin settled Curufinwë on one of the couches, and came down beside him. Curufinwë’s little legs didn’t reach the cushion’s end. His huge, luminous eyes swung between the two silent grow-ups.

“I bad?” His lip trembled. “I sowy!”

“No, you are not in trouble.” Curufin patted Curufinwë’s shoulder, casting a pleading look at Fëanor to intervene and fix this before Curufinwë started crying again.

Fëanor set the box down on the table before the couch, and picked Curufinwë up. He took Curufinwë into his lap and sat next to Curufin. He smoothed the hair off Curufinwë’s brow and kissed the beloved cheek. “Shh, listen to your daddy. You have not been naughty. In fact, you have very good. So good your daddy made a special present for you.”

The tears were forgotten, and Curufinwë’s eyes ran to his father’s. “A pwesent?”

“Yes,” Curufin’s mouth found a smile, and it crinkled the skin about his eyes, lighting them up like jewels. Fëanor could feel the way that single smile melted all the tension out of Curufinwë’s bones. The child vibrated with excitement as Curufin placed the box before him on the couch. “Go on. Open it.”

Curufinwë’s hands flew to the lid. Curufin’s followed to help the child lift it. The light caught in the creamy yellow of Celegorm’s hair, pulling out the threads of Míriel’s silver within.

Curufinwë gasped. “Uncle Celegorm!” His fingers dived in and pulled out the rider, bow and arrow still curled in the toy’s hands.

Curufinwë bounced, holding the toy Celegorm up like a trophy. “Look, Daddy, look, Papa, it Uncle Celegorm!”

“Why, yes it is,” Fëanor grinned, dropping his smile into Curufinwë’s hair. He slid a glance up at Curufin. He took delight in his son’s face as Curufin listened to Curufinwë chatter his love for Toy Celegorm. Fëanor hoarded the joy in his cheeks until they ached with the stretch of his smile that hurt so good his vision blurred with the sheen of tears.

Curufin reached out and caught the plumpness of the baby’s cheek under his fingertips. Curufinwë’s eyes were draw to his father’s, a huge grin on his face as he waved Toy Celegorm at his daddy. “Uncle Celegorm go huntin, Daddy!”

“It looks like he is. Hmm,” Curufin tilted the box towards him, looking in with exaggeration. “Did he leave his horse in the stable? He will not get far without his horse.”

Curufinwë’s eyes dropped back to the box, and spied the horse. He cried out, and snatched the horse up. “Horse, Daddy! Look, it bwak like Uncle Celegorm’s horse!”

“So it is,” Curufin’s voice dropped into a whisper, and he watched Curufinwë discover how to place Toy Celegorm in the saddle and his feet in the stirrups. Curufinwë tackled the task with the same ferocity of concentration he’d approached his artwork.

Curufinwë held up his finished work with triumph. “Uncle Celegorm wedy to go huntin!”

Curufinwë wiggled out of Fëanor’s lap, taking his toy with him. He took Toy Celegorm on his first adventure, over the edge of the couch’s cushion, down the impossibility steep slope of the couch’s front, Toy Celegorm keeping his seat in the saddle as his horse navigated the sheer cliff at a gallop, and down to run circles on floor.

They watched Curufinwë play, and listened to his chattering commentary that spilled so quickly from his mouth it was impossible to make out what Toy Celegorm was saying. Fëanor turned his head and watched Curufin watching Curufinwë. He found the longing there for more –always—but it was tempered by the contentment of the moment.

Curufin’s eyes turned to him, feeling the gaze. Fëanor brushed his fingers against the back of his son’s hand, and tilted him a smile. Curufin sighed, the sound neither light nor heavy; his mouth curved back.

Curufinwë jumped at the sound of a crash. It was the sound of the front door hitting the stones with a bang. One of Fëanor’s sons was home. A curse followed, Caranthir’s voice ringing down the halls and through the crack Fëanor had left in the door. Curufinwë clutched his toy Celegorm to his chest, and whispered to it to be quiet. Toy Celegorm whispered back with the suggestion of hiding under the table. But Curufinwë dismissed this drastic measure, saying his papa and daddy would keep them safe.

Fëanor would not have Curufinwë fearing one of his uncles. Caranthir did not spend much time with Curufinwë, but whenever baby Curufinwë had been passed into his arms, Caranthir softened. Curufinwë looked so like Curufin as a child, and Caranthir had been enchanted with Curufin from the first. Fëanor would find Caranthir snuck into the baby’s room whispering to his little brother at all hours of the night. Caranthir used to try to carry Curufin in his little arms, and throw fits when forced to put the baby down. He’d climb up on cushions and beds and hold out his arms, begging to be allowed to hold his little brother now. After Curufin learned to totter along on his chubby legs, Caranthir would take him everywhere with him.

Fëanor stood. “Come down to greet your brother with me?” Curufin hesitated, a flash of the old vulnerability passed over his face. He had never moved passed Caranthir’s breaking of their friendship. He only hid how much it still hurt. “He will have news of Maedhros and Maglor in the city.”

Curufin gathered himself, tucking the moment of fragility away. “Very well. We shall see what has stirred his temper up. One of those city lords was probably harassing him about his brusqueness. Caranthir hates—” Curufin snapped his teeth shut on remembrance.

He slipped into a crouch beside Curufinwë. His fingers followed the tender curve of bone behind Curufinwë’s ear, brushing black hairs still holding a baby’s curl at their ends. Curufinwë’s eyes lifted to his father. “We are going to see your uncle Caranthir. Do you want to walk or ride?”

Curufinwë tucked his mouth into Toy Celegorm’s hair, voice muffled, “Ride pwease.”

“With your papa?” Curufin already withdrew his hand, anticipating another as the chosen one.

Curufinwë would choose Fëanor. Fëanor said before Curufinwë could hurt his father in his innocence, “You should take him Curufin.”

Curufin flicked an anxious glance over Curufinwë’s face, but agreed because he wanted to hold Curufinwë more then he feared messing up. He picked him up with infinite care, like his son was made of rose petals. Curufinwë carried Toy Celegorm’s horse tucked under his arm, and Toy Celegorm against his heart.

They found Caranthir in the main floor receiving room, pouring himself a hefty glass of wine. He looked up with a scowl at the opening door, but when he saw who disturbed him, his brows smoothed out, though no smile found his mouth.

Fëanor took his son into his arms, and Caranthir allowed himself a moment within them, his strong body relaxing enough to return the embrace. “You were missed,” Fëanor whispered into Caranthir’s ear. Caranthir’s arms tightened about him, before stepping back.

Caranthir’s eyes slipped passed Fëanor to Curufin. His face blanked, and then he pulled on the sneer he used to keep his brother, the one who once knew every secret of his heart, away. Curufin met the sneer with a cool tip of his chin.

“How did you find your brothers?” Fëanor broke the look between his sons that did nothing but wound them both.

Caranthir tore his gaze away from Curufin. He made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat for answer and picked his favorite chair to collapse into. It was one of Curufin’s making, with a generous seat for sprawling knees, and wolf-heads born from the wood of the armrests that were perfectly proportioned to hold the curve of a palm and allow the fingers to drape with careless elegance. Maedhros was fond of the chair as well, and Curufin had made another for his brother’s rooms.

Fëanor took a seat in the chair opposite, with Curufin perching on the couch between with easy elegance after he’d set Curufinwë down on his feet to explore the room. Curufin’s movements and features were those arranged for show, a performance. He had more than a little of Maglor and Maedhros in him in the way he instinctively knew how to play to an audience. He’d never been anything but himself as a child. But when he began reaching for coolness and turns of wrists and just-so tilts of his neck, he found them already inside him, awaiting only his need.

Caranthir wasn’t allowed to see how much a single look from him could still leave Curufin in pieces.

Fëanor was not satisfied with Caranthir’s nonresponse. He was not alarmed that something was amiss with Maedhros and Maglor in Tirion, he received enough letters from them to put him at ease, but he needed so much more then letters. “Caranthir.”

Caranthir’s gaze swung to Fëanor. He slid his eyes to the side in his own brand of an eye roll, before conceding to his father’s rapacious hunger for news. “To hear Maglor talk you’d think our people were country bunkums next to the splendor of Trion’s culture. He goes to a hundred parties, dances every night, is flattered and flirted with enough to make me sick, and sings night and day.” When he saw the worry Fëanor did not bother to hide, Caranthir sighed. “All right. Maglor would be home tomorrow if he could tear Maedhros away from Fingon. Maglor is certainly near-worshiped for his voice, and has gaggles of woman falling over themselves to catch him as their husband, but he holds zero respect for his admires, and has few genuine friends. Don’t start worrying over him though, he has Maedhros. He’s fine.”

“And Maedhros?”

“As infatuated with him as ever. He’s only happy when Fingon is with him, and he’s miserable when they are apart.”

“Caranthir,” Fëanor warned.

“Fine. Maedhros may not be quite such a love-sick fool as that. He must be getting over it, because he passed up on an afternoon with his love to show off his favorite spots in the city to me. If he’s returned to the point of choosing me over Fingon, there might be some hope for him yet.”

Curufin steadfastly did not look at Caranthir. Curufinwë absorbed all his attention –or he made sure it appeared that nothing Caranthir had to say could draw his interest. Caranthir’s eyes kept slipping back to Curufin, watching him.

Caranthir allowed himself to watch now he believed himself safe from Curufin catching him at it. There was no sneer on his mouth without Curufin to wear it for. He kept his face guarded, but the very fact that he could not stop watching his brother spoke the secret longing in his heart. One day, Caranthir and Curufin would be best friends again. Fëanor held on to that belief with a knuckle-white grip.

Fëanor moved the conversation passed Maedhros’ love for Fingon. Caranthir was free with his opinion that it was only a temporary infatuation, and one unworthy of Maedhros. Maedhros deserved someone a hundred times better than Fingon. No one would ever be good enough for Maedhros in Caranthir’s eyes. If Caranthir had his wish, not one of his brothers would ever marry or give their heart away, not one would ever leave home or find somewhere, someone, they loved better then the circle of Fëanor’s blood.

“Curufinwë, why don’t you show your uncle Caranthir the toy your daddy made you?”

Curufinwë looked up from his play. His eyes darted over to Caranthir, teeth worrying his lip. Caranthir sat forward on the chair, resting his forearms on his knees and bringing his face closer to the little one’s level. He did not smile, and his heavy brows sabotaged any attempt at neutrality as they always did. Their heaviness lent his face the appearance of frowning, even now, when he did not.

But Curufinwë did not hide his face in Toy Celegorm’s hair. A little line pinched between his brows as he studied his uncle with the same intensity he’d approached his drawing. Satisfied with what he found in Caranthir’s face, he climbed to his feet, using a chair’s leg for balance, and tottered over to his uncle.

“Dis Celegorm.” Curufinwë held out the toy. “He my fwend.”

“He is a handsome fellow.” Caranthir took the doll, and settled it on his knee. Curufinwë slipped close to press against Caranthir’s shin, all fear forgotten.

“You pwomise no yellin? He get scawed.” Curufinwë’s fingers wound in Caranthir’s leggings, serious face peering up at his uncle.

Caranthir tapped Curufinwë’s shoulder. “No more yelling. I promise. Now run along and play.” Caranthir handed the toy back, and Curufinwë took it against his chest with a beaming smile. Caranthir did not smile back, but Curufinwë seemed to understand Caranthir smiled with his eyes.

Fëanor wished for one of the beautiful smiles of Caranthir’s childhood, but those were so rare now Fëanor feared they were extinct. But sometimes they still found their way to Caranthir’s mouth, lighting up his whole face and drawing every eye privileged enough to witness.

Curufinwë left his uncle’s leg to take Toy Celegorm to the rug. The horse ran circles along the lines of the weave, following the colors, as Curufinwë softly advised Toy Celegorm on where the best hunting grounds could be found and to watch out for grizzly bears.

With Caranthir’s mind cooled, Fëanor circled back around to what had sat itself under Caranthir’s tongue like a hornet. “What –or who—was foolish enough to rouse your anger?”

“Who do you think?” Caranthir took a moody sip from his wine glass.

Fëanor’s mouth twitched. “As you have come fresh from the city, forgive me for not being able to whittle the list of possible offenders down from a hundred. Rather, it should remain in the thousands for those city-bred lords’ sons and strutting intellectuals never fail to rub you wrong.”

Caranthir’s mouth curved darkly. “True enough. But it was that viper prince with the stick logged up his ass that I came a breath from punching in his oh-so-perfect face.”

Fëanor raised a brow. “What has Fingolfin done this time?”

“He’s trying to undermine you, Father –again!” Caranthir’s palm came down with a smack on the wolf’s head, voice rising an octave towards a shout. Curufinwë jumped, eyes huge as they swung to Caranthir.

Curufin cut his brother a withering look, but the moment his eyes fastened on Caranthir’s flushed cheeks and sparking eyes they slid away again. His mouth, opened for a rebuke, snapped shut. Caranthir looked down, shamed and comforted by that single glance.

His fingers curled into a ball, and wrestled his control back with the bite of nails. “Forgive me.”

Fëanor passed Caranthir a smile that said everything when his son’s eyes turned to him, but it was for Curufin to forgive in truth, and Caranthir’s eyes only lingered on Fëanor for a moment before finding his brother again. Curufin’s eyes met Caranthir’s searching ones out of their corners, Curufin not quite able to resist looking back.

Fëanor’s breath build up in his lungs, held there for the moment that stretched on and on to a pinnacle glimmering like the promise of gold, of reunion and healing. Fëanor dared to hope, as his sons’ gazes stayed locked, neither looking away and so much build up between them, so many remembered years of childhood happiness, he dared to hope that—

Caranthir yanked his eyes away, the movement harsh as the sawing off of a dead limb.

Fëanor’s breath turned sour in his mouth, and Curufin’s face flashed with a pain so deep it struck itself across his eyes and mouth like a physical blow. But then the pain wiped clear, and Curufin said in a voice thrusting towards cool nonchalance but falling short in the wavering of the last syllables, “It is nothing.”

The three fell into a silence that crawled with a hundred words unsaid. Curufinwë took up his play again, his soft chatter a background to the deeper silence. Caranthir drained his wine glass in one long swig, and dropped the glass on the side table. Curufin had taken up staring at his son again –anywhere but Caranthir.

Fëanor stood. He side-stepped Curufinwë on the rug, and came to Curufin, holding out a hand. Curufin raised his, and their fingers brushed with a kiss of affection that needed no words.

Fëanor took the last two strides to Caranthir’s chair and circled around it to drop his hands into his son’s shoulders. He squeezed with the firmness of ‘I love you’ into the strong curves of muscle. He did not stop his gentle kneading until Caranthir loosed a sigh and let the tension unroll from his shoulders. Then Fëanor bent and feathered three kisses along Caranthir’s temple, down to the point of his ear.

“So, what did Fingolfin do?”

Caranthir seized the branch Fëanor offered. “I cannot swear to the truth of what I speak, for I heard the news from a man who heard it from another –you know the way of rumors in Tirion—but it is said Fingolfin has been speaking out against you. Specifically the ban you placed on Melkor from entering Fëanorion lands. He is naming the ban illegal –as you didn’t get Grandfather’s permission—and a violation of the conditions of Melkor’s patrol and thus a violation of the Valar’s ruling. He might as well be naming you a traitor to the king –and a malcontent of the Valar as well, but who cares about them.”

“Hmm,” Fëanor left Caranthir’s side to pour himself a glass of wine. He took a sip, before swirling it in the glass’ belly. His sons awaited his verdict. Fëanor turned back to them, finding their eyes fixed on him. “I will wait before formulating an appropriate response until Maedhros has confirmed the authenticity of this news. It could be nothing but hot air. More than one rumor has been proved nothing but fabrication.”

“And more than one has been proved the truth.” Caranthir said, brow dark.

Fëanor inclined his head at the truth upon his son’s lips. “I shall not sit idle upon my hands waiting, regardless. A single false rumor is one thing, but this has become a pattern, and I do not like the smell of it.”

“What will you do, Father?” Curufin asked.

Fëanor turned his head, looking south, towards Tirion. The window showed the long stretch of road playing hide-and-seek across the rolling pasture lands and farm fields to where Tirion glimmered. The city rose from the valley upon the hill of Túna like an oyster’s shell. Two of his boys had been caught in her web. He missed them like the ache of a missing rib. And in that city lay his birthright and a Father who may love the children Míriel had died to allow into the world best, but whose love Fëanor was as jealous for as he was thirsty.

He would not let Fingolfin take what was his without a fight. Too long he had avoided the entanglements of Tirion: its sticky courts sunk deep with intrigue and hangers-on, the opulence bloating it like milk left to the point of souring in the sun, and the society he’d fought to tear down in his youth and build up again into something new and bright and beautiful bathed in the breath of fire and hungry for eyes that saw and hands that reached.

Maybe some part of him had been afraid of Tirion. Not that he’d be dragged down into the mud and blinded like the sheep, but of the echoing corridors of the palace, of the blank places on the wall where his mother’s tapestries used to hang, of three children hoisted up to his father’s shoulders as Father used to hoist him. And he was afraid of a pair of blue eyes that still had the power to stir the desires for something lost in him. Fingolfin was not Fingolfin anymore, but he looked like Fingolfin. He wore the same eyes as the little boy, and had that hair Fëanor wanted to sink his hand into up to the wrist, and those curving cheekbones Fëanor wanted to—

But the man Fingolfin had grown into was not the one Fëanor had seen looking out at him from a child’s blue eyes. That Fingolfin was gone. And it shouldn’t hurt to think of what was lost, all squandered away for a politician’s petty power-grasping and a life of mediocre, but it did.

Fëanor said, because he didn’t want Fingolfin to have even one last string to his heart, “Maedhros can manage Fingolfin. He has cultivated the ‘appearance’ of friendship with him, and keeps a close eye on his doings.” He caught Caranthir’s look from the corner of his eye. “What is it?”

Caranthir hummed, watching Fëanor with hooded calculation, before he threw the moment off with a shrug. “Nothing.”

Fëanor did not believe that, but his sons were entitled to their own thoughts –even doubts. Perhaps Caranthir did not believe Maedhros could handle Fingolfin, but Fëanor was sure of his son.

Maedhros had Fingolfin well in hand, but that did not mean Fëanor should leave this battle upon Maedhros’ shoulders without support. Maedhros remained in the city and the courts under his own will, the choice had been wholly his. If Fëanor had been the chooser Maedhros and Maglor would be home where they belonged –where they were sorely missed. But the political cesspit Maedhros had inherited and slogged through on a daily basis was of Fëanor’s making. Fëanor did not regret a single line he had written or a word he had spoken in the squares and lord’s halls, but the time was ripe for him to return to Tirion for Maedhros. But only for visits.

He would not move his family back there and expose his younger sons to Tirion. It would be poison in their veins. Just look at Caranthir, come in like a storm of wrath. Tirion had done that.

A snapping sound drew three eyes to the rug. Curufinwë stared at Toy Celegorm’s arm detached from the body. His eyes flew up to Curufin, huge and already pooling with wetness. His face crumpled and he started to sob and talk all at once, the words getting lost in the cries.

Curufin slid to his knees beside Curufinwë, scooting closer like he approached a skittish animal. He patted Curufinwë on the shoulder, “Don’t cry. It is all right. Just stop crying.”

Curufinwë’s fingers clenched about the arm, and he pulled Toy Celegorm to his chest, folding himself around the toy as if to protect it. Fat tears rolled down his cheeks, and in between hiccupping sobs his cried, “I not mean bweak Uncle Celegorm, Daddy! I look how he wowk, but he bwoke. I sowy! I sowy!”

Curufin held out a hand, “Here let me see him.” Curufinwë’s sobs petered down, and he passed the toy to his father, eyes full of hope that Curufin could make everything right again. “It is not broken, see?” Curufin demonstrated how the arm could pop back into the shoulder socket. He revolved it, twisting it this way and that. “Good as new. Now you try.”

Curufin snapped the arm back out and passed both pieces to Curufinwë. Curufinwë’s face picked up its fierce intensity as his little fingers tried to fit the arm back in. It took him several tries, but he did not give up until he’d conquered. The arm slipped into place with a satisfying pop.

Curufinwë’s face shone, joy and triumph dawning in his eyes and setting them aglitter. His cheeks dusted pink as he beamed. “Look, Daddy, I do it!”

Curufin smiled, and brushed his thumb against Curufinwë’s flushed cheek. “Good.” Curufinwë’s eyes looked like lamps had been lit behind them. “Listen: do not ever cry because you wanted to discover a curiosity of the world, Curufinwë. Curiosity is what will make you great one day.” Curufinwë nodded as if he understood. “Now, do you want to see how the other parts work?”

“Yes, Daddy!”

Curufin took the toy back and began demonstrating how to pop off the legs at the knee and hip joint, and then the ankle. Each time he passed the pieces to Curufinwë to put back together again.

Curufinwë’s fingers trembled with excitement, body so filled up with it he couldn’t sit still, as if he’d been stuffed with butterflies and they were determined to take flight with him. His fingers fumbled, but Curufin showed uncommon patience with him. Curufin’s encouragement was as much that of a father’s as it was a boy’s sharing his passion. His voice picked up animation, his eyes brightness, and his face was now as flushed as Curufinwë’s as he explained the toy’s workmanship.

Curufin’s passion drew Curufinwë like a bear to honey. He shed his shyness just as Curufin had shed his awkwardness, and climbed right into his father’s lap. There was a moment when Curufin’s speech tripped, and his hands fluttered, not quite landing on his son’s body, before his arms found their place around Curufinwë. Curufinwë’s back rested against Curufin’s chest with the naturalness of a pea curled into its pod, grown there and always met to call that place its home.

Curufinwë’s eyes were torn between watching his father’s face and his father’s hands demonstrate the workings of the leg joints. Curufin curled Curufinwë’s fingers into a tighter grip. “Like this, hold it with a fist so it does not escape.”

Curufinwë kept his fingers in the position his father had arranged them after Curufin’s touch withdrew, and managed to re-attach the leg this time. “Look, Daddy!” Curufinwë waved Toy Celegorm about as if afraid Curufin could have missed his victory.

“Well done. Your little fist has some strength in it I see. It will hold a hammer before long!” Curufin slid a smile up to share with Fëanor. Fëanor met it with one of his own, heart swelled with happiness for his son.

Curufinwë made a fist with his hand, testing it out. “I be like you and Papa!”

“Yes,” Curufin touched his son’s curls. “Your little fist will grow into a big fist soon. But you are my little fist now.”

Curufinwë’s face swiveled up to his father’s. “I your wittle fist?”

“Yes,” Curufin whispered. “You are.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *indicates writing inspired by Martin Luther King Jr.’s words.

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 18

Fingolfin’s fingers trialed over the book. The red leather was warm and supple to the touch. Under the title and authorship rested the eight-point star Fëanor had adopted as a sign of his House. The star was a reference to Fëanor’s greatest work.

Fingolfin had seen the Silmarils. Finwë threw a great banquet in honor of his favorite son’s achievement, the new wonder of their world, and Fëanor had worn them on his brow. Fingolfin had not been able to stop staring at Fëanor all night, but he wasn’t the only one so he thought no one had noticed.

Fëanor surprised everyone when he returned with his sons to Tirion, as he had not done since before his marriage. For how long they would abide within the city was debatable, but what was not debatable was that they were impossible to ignore. Fëanor had brought shouting matches, slammed doors, pinched faces, and so much life the city trembled with it.

The court had simmered down in the absence of Fëanor’s writings these last years, but he’d stirred it up into a frenzy again. Fingolfin’s fingers splayed across the book’s cover, pointer finger coming to rest on the author’s name: Fëanáro Curufinwë Þerindion.

Fëanor had written a whole host of essays, but this was his first book, and the first of his writings to be published in over a decade. He’d withdrawn into his work for a time, going silent on the political front. But Fëanor was back, and his latest work more inflammatory then all the others combined. His writings had only hinted at it before, but now they possessed the definite edge of fighting against oppression.

The book began with a question, as all Fëanor’s papers did. It would be a question that reached down and touched the bones of the reader. The reader would be left spinning, wondering why they’d never asked these questions of the world; or maybe they had, all their lives, and their souls would cry out with Fëanor’s, stirred to gnawing hunger to have this question of why answered.

—Ilúvatar is the authority under which Námo gathers Elven-souls to his Halls and judges them according to the wisdom inherent in his nature. Or so the Powers claim. But what evidence do the Valar provide in support of their assertion that Manwë maintains contact with a creator who has shown no other signs of continued involvement in his creation?—

Fëanor had collected extensive research that must have taken him decades to prepare, and presented his findings in the book. Fingolfin was not surprised to read pages and pages of interviews Fëanor had assembled with footnotes of entire volumes more he’d documented and could be analyzed in the palace’s Corridor of Lore, open to any Elf with enough curiosity to seek it out. Míriel Serindë was one of the souls denied re-embodiment, her very body destroyed. Fëanor did not hold himself back from pouring out his personal feelings (all masterfully articulated) on the ‘rightness’ of sentencing an Elf who’d been sick to an eternity imprisoned in the Halls of Mandos.

Fëanor claimed to have interviewed every Elf born before the Great Journey now living in Valinor willing to speak: Noldo, Teler, and Vanya alike. Fingolfin believed him. Fëanor would never make a false claim.

Fëanor’s findings provided convincing evidence that Elven-souls, left to their own devices when their hröa were made unlivable, were able to sustain spiritual substance, even influence the lives of the living and provide energy to housed fëa. Perhaps even achieve physical re-embodiment in time. Fëanor’s conclusions were not irrefutable as experimentation was impossible, but they were enough to start others asking questions.

Fingolfin had known the Valar held agency over Elven-souls in death. But that truth had never seemed so inherently wrong. Or so terrifying. He wouldn’t be the only Elf reading Fëanor’s words and feeling a chill of fear and helplessness crawl down their spine.

The imbalance of power between the Elves and the Ainur had long been prevalent in Fëanor’s writings, as was a call for the Elves to attain their own sovereignty with no higher authority over them then their Elven-king. But this was so much more than an imbalance of governmental powers, or even the Valar’s headship over the Noldor’s justice system. A bodiless soul was helpless, completely at the mercy of the Valar.

Fingolfin eyes lingered on one of Fëanor’s closing lines: Change will not be handed to us on a platter. It must be won through a continuous struggle. Only through standing up for what we know in our hearts to be a right of our existence –the right to life and re-birth at the hour of our soul’s choosing—will we reclaim the rights that have been stripped from us.

Pressure had built over the years for Fingolfin to take a definite stance on Fëanor’s politics. Fingolfin had not spoken out for or against Fëanor. He walked a fine line between condoning and condemning.

Everything Fëanor had ever written was riveting, and Fingolfin had read every piece printed. He’d followed Fëanor though his first essays that carried the mark of naiveté but blazed with optimism for their land and people, and watched as the fires burned hotter each passing year against the injustices of the world; Fëanor’s writings dripping arrogance and sharp intellect but charming Fingolfin as fully as a single look from Fëanor could.

Words were intimate. They were the expression of the heart and mind, and Fëanor’s words had drawn Fingolfin to him so that it seemed Fingolfin walked this road of self-discovery and mounting disillusionment alongside Fëanor. It was the only intimacy they shared, but it was an unintentional one on Fëanor’s part, and Fingolfin hated that a thousand other hearts could believe they walked as closely with their prince.

Fingolfin took comfort in the distance between Fëanor and his followers present in those followers’ voices when they spoke of him, their Master Fëanor, their prince, their savior, but not their equal. Fingolfin read Fëanor’s words, hearing Fëanor’s voice whispering them in his ear, and saw not a man set above him as teacher and leader, but a brother, equal, shoulder pressed to shoulder as they walked down the path side-by-side.

Fingolfin did not agree with every word Fëanor wrote. He had conclusions of his own, and his own independent thoughts on their society. He wasn’t a child to be led about by the nose. Still, he ate Fëanor’s words up with the fervor of Fëanor’s horde of followers.

But Fëanor alienated himself into a fraction of radicals that grew more discontent by the year. Yet Fëanor also stirred their people’s minds, forcing them to think, to look around and examine their world, either to prove that their lives were perfect the way they were or to challenge the statuesque. Fingolfin approved of this. Before Fëanor started shaking up their people’s hearts, the Noldor walked in willful ignorance, and there was nothing more dangerous to the health of a society then that.

Fëanor did not restrain himself though; his arrogance and pride knew no bounds. He should walk more softly. Yet Fingolfin could not image a world where Fëanor didn’t enter a debate with a door flung open, come charging in with a shout that was as stunningly reasoned and executed as it was provocative. Fingolfin didn’t want to imagine a world in which Fëanor wore faces and tiptoed around his words’ meaning, hiding his heart under layers and layers of veils. That world would be one with less strife in it, but less fire as well, and be the poorer for it.

But Fingolfin took his responsibility to their people seriously, unlike Fëanor who was more interested in making everyone hear his beliefs, which he, naturally, felt were the world’s only truth. Fingolfin did not speak openly against the Valar, nor would he, even if he privately nursed his own resentment against their oppressive laws.

Fingolfin agreed with Fëanor’s sentiments that the Valar should take their heavy-hands off the Elves and leave then to rule themselves without the Valar’s interference. But Fëanor’s words conveyed a building belief that freedom would never be achieved without some form of open-rebellion. Fingolfin did not agree. The Valar were incompetent, maybe even malicious in their dealings with the Eldar, but to flirt with open-rebellion against Powers so vastly outstripping their own and believe they could come away the victors was delusional.

So Fingolfin would continue to dance around outright condemnation or endorsement.

*

“Master Fëanor?”

Fëanor looked up from his work at the call from his forge door. He pulled off his leather gloves and apron, tossing them on the worktable, before pushing his safety glasses up into the handkerchief binding back his hair.

He strode to the forge’s open doorway. He nodded at the group of seven Elves, all his people, ones he knew by name and occupation, some he’d shared rich conversations with into the long hours of the night.

“Of what assistance can I be, my friends?”

The Elves passed around a glance before Fuinnith stepped forward. She was a weaver Fëanor first met when he’d interview her, one of his first, on her experiences with the souls of dead Elves about Lake Cuiviénen. “Master Fëanor, we come to you as representatives of a group of Elves who have been moved by your words to seek out our first, forever home. All of us were born on the shores of Lake Cuiviénen, or on the Great Journey. Some of us have kin we were sundered from long ago and would seek out. Our hearts have ever longed for the place of our birth, with a deep, abiding longing. We wish to go home.”

Fëanor nodded slowly, searching their resolved faces. “How would you have me help you find your way home again so you can lay your heads down upon the Lake of a Thousand Stars and Dreams once more?”

Fuinnith smiled. “We ask that you speak before the Valar on our behalf. We have no skill with the crafting of boats, and no way of returning home. We thought to ask the Valar to provide a way, as they it were who brought us to these lands long ago.”

“I shall speak for you.”

*

Fëanor’s voice rang out over the Great Square, netting hearts. There was so much built up inside him, and even though he knew the source of this boiling, clawing wrath, that didn’t extinguish it. He felt like the molten core of the Earth pumped through his veins, and the altering power of an earthquake re-shaping the world vibrated in every word leaping off his tongue.

“Are we captives here, held at the whims of the Valar, or free souls able to come and go from this land as we choose? Either we have the agency to leave or we do not. It cannot be both ways!” He flung a hand out at Fuinnith and the Elves who had sought and been denied not only a means to leave Valinor, but the very freedom to do so! “Do these neighbors of ours, these free Noldor, not have the right to decide whether they would come or go as they please?”

The crowd cried out their anger, and fear painted their faces as they shouted for the Elves’ right to freedom. Some others watched silent, disproving and murmuring from the edges, but these Fëanor did not care to waste a glance on.

“Then it is time to rise up and show the Valar that we are not playthings! Stand with me, my friends, my people, as one we will send the Valar a message!” The crowd cheered, desperate for the power of a voice heard. “Craftsmen, artisans, I speak directly to you now. Together we will lay down our tools and refuse to craft any images of the Valar, be it Varda or Manwë. Our hands will not form the images of those who would hold us captive! Now, my fellow Noldor, we must come together and boycott the buying of any such image. We must send a message to the Valar of our refusal to lie down while our rights are stripped from us! We will maintain this boycott on the making and purchasing on the Valar’s images until our voices are heard!”

Fëanor’s feet had taken him in a pace across the place’s high steps. His boot planted now in the high cornerstone of the steps, knee bent. His hand grabbed hold of the flag pole upon which his father’s heraldry flapped, and pulled himself forward, eyes sweeping the crowds’ faces, voice striking their hearts like a gong: “Who is with me!”

The crowd roared his name, swearing their love and devotion, and sweetest of all, promising to stand with him. At last his long labor would bear the fruit of solid change. He had turned many hearts, awoken many eyes, but had accomplished few changes on a societal level, and that grated and lit his belly with frustration and restlessness.

Fëanor dropped from the palace steps to walk among his people. Now, finally, they would rise to the heights he had dreamed of. He was stopped at every turn to be touched, thanked, given vows of support, but he had a destination in mind and cut through the crowd until he reached its outer edges where he’d seen the hooded figure.

On the edges of the square lingered the naysayers, those who had listened to his words with hard hearts and blind eyes. One of these stepped forward to try and block Fëanor’s path. Fëanor recognized him as one of the lesser lords. The man tried to slap Fëanor with the accusation of seeking to incite a riot.

Fury bloomed across Fëanor’s cheekbones. This utter fool! “Pray, for the sake of our people, it never comes to that. For a riot is the voice of the unheard!”*

Fëanor shoved passed the fool. He found the hooded figure waiting for him where he’d spotted it during his speech. Fëanor had spent years working side-by-side with one of the Ainur. He’d honed his senses until he was able to say with absolute confidence that he could spot one of the Ainur walking among the Eldar even when that Ainu sought to hide its nature.

Fëanor strode the last few feet to the figure. The grey hood pulled low enough to obscure its features. He crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted up his chin. “Manwë is sending spies to inform him of my words now?”

The Ainu turned fully to face him, and Fëanor caught a slice of profile in the light and a flash of auburn hair.

“Curumo.” Fëanor named him, knowing the Maia from his time at Aulë’s forge.

“Fëanor.” The Maia inclined his head. Just the one word, but his voice still had the power to thread into the psychic.

Fëanor pushed the underlying Power in the voice away, taking no offense at the attempted enchantment. Curumo spoke with Power to everyone, even Aulë. The Maia liked the feel of the magic swelling in his breast, and the challenge of twining delicate strands through his voice, so subtle most would not even catch it.

“Perhaps Manwë sent me. But perhaps he did not. Either way, you should take a care, Fëanor. Word of this boycott will reach the Valar’s ears.”

“Good. Maybe then they will bend their loft heads to the Noldor and hear the cries of a people who will no longer be ignored.”

Curumo lowered his hood, dark eyes meeting Fëanor’s. The high sweep of his cheekbones left hollows to gather shadows in his cheeks beneath. He had haughty but striking features. “Manwë did not give a definite answer to those Elves’ request to leave Valinor. He asked for more time to consider.”

Fëanor took a step closer, eyes unwavering from their challenging light. “A right delayed is a right denied.”*

Curumo’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “You have ever been clever with your words, take a care you do not stir Powers even your cleverness cannot overthrow.” Curumo pulled up his hood, and turned away. Fëanor did not try to stay the Ainu’s leaving.

He found his father waiting for him on the palace steps. “Fëanor, speak with me.” Finwë opened his hand to Fëanor, gesturing for Fëanor to lead the way.

Fëanor set a strong pace to his father’s study. They did not speak until the door had closed behind them, shutting out prying ears and eyes.

Finwë took one of the seats before his desk and offered the other to Fëanor. His father watched him for a long moment, fingers laced under his chin, studying Fëanor. Fëanor raised his chin into the look.

Finwë sighed, a long, weary exhale of breath. “Fëanor. My son. Since Nerdanel’s leaving I have worried for you. Long I held my peace, unable to hurt you, even by mistake, with my words. But now you have gone too far and forced my hand.”

Finwë leaned forward, dropping the pose of introspection. Earnest creases pressed deep into his brow and the corners of his mouth. “Fëanor, I must ask you to contain yourself from speaking so openly against the Valar. I do not want to forbid you from speaking in public, I do not want to ban your writings, but if you continue on this path, my son, I will be forced to take action as the Noldor’s king.”

Fëanor’s breath whooshed out in a sound almost a laugh but too startled for that, just a breath yanked up from his lungs with the shock. He couldn’t even find the words. He was reduced to the little boy he’d once been with so much inside him his words caught on the mountain of feelings raging through him like a blizzard.

“You must understand, Fëanor, I do not want to do this. My son—” Finwë reached out to place his hand over Fëanor’s.

Fëanor snatched his hand away before their skin touched. He found his feet, staring down at his father’s face. So beloved, so resented. No, he mustn’t blame his father. His father had been preyed upon in his loneliness by Indis who’d taken advantage of Finwë’s grief. That was what Fëanor had told himself. That was what he had to believe. Because otherwise…otherwise his father killed Mother just as surely as Indis had.

“I will not stop speaking the truth. I will not be silenced. I will not be gagged. I will not be controlled.”

Finwë stood, arms lifting towards Fëanor, a helpless gesture because Fëanor would not be caught, would not be held and captured in arms wishing to cut out his tongue and bind his fingers together. “Fëanor, for me. Do this for me. Please.”

Fëanor listened to the words that had moved him again and again towards restraint. But they no longer held power over him. “No.”

Fëanor turned and strode out of the room, back straight and head high.

Inside he was not a cool forest pool –that he would never be. But the lightning did not fork below his breastbone, and no fire caught him in its storm. He felt sliced through, as if a piece of himself had been cut off and left in that room with his father. There was emptiness, and lightness, inside.

He needed Maedhros. His son’s face had not been one among the crowd. Fëanor had yielded to Maedhros’ council that it would be best to leave some public distance between them. The Valar’s response to the boycott and Fëanor’s rousing words could not be predicted in full, and if their retaliation pressed down upon Fëanor’s head, Fëanor needed to know Maedhros was safe and would watch over and lead his brothers if the worst came about.

Fëanor had long shed any illusion that the Valar were benevolent in their dealings with the Eldar. But what they would do when challenged outright was yet to be revealed.

Fëanor stopped servants and young courtiers in the corridors until one could direct him to his son. A young boy with a basket spilling corn ears pointed him to the Garden of Reflection, a place known for its abundant peony bushes and cultured streams stocked with fish as varied in their scales as a rainbow.

The sweet smell of the peonies flowed over him like steam from a bath as he stepped out onto the lawn. The peony bushes spilled over their beds, draping blossoming arms into the path. Walkers picked up petals along with a dusting of the ants the buds crawled with.

Fëanor found Maedhros seated on a garden bench with his body angled in the language of intimacy towards the one seated beside him. They did not quite touch, but if Fingolfin had shifted forward another inch their knees would brush. They spoke lowly to each other, their words not caring, but the sly smiles and glances passed between them betrayed a relationship familiar enough to read the other in a single dip of eyelash or crooked brow.

Fëanor’s steps froze. Blood rushed in his veins like a wave crashing upon the rocks. The scene before him overlaid with another never forgotten in his mind: the son of Indis seated upon Finwë’s right-hand in the heir’s seat, the one belonging to the son of Míriel. The intimacy of secret confidences revealed in the ease way Fingolfin’s hand rested upon the throne, laying close enough to Finwë’s Finwë could have shifted his palm and taken Fingolfin’s hand in his, clasping in the final note of the symphony that had been building since Finwë’s voice started picking up that note of strain when he spoke to Fëanor, and his lips let out those sighs again and again that screamed in Fëanor’s ears because he knew, he knew what they meant: he exhausted his father.

Fingolfin had long sought Fëanor’s birthright, and with it the confirmation of Finwë’s preference for him as a son and heir. Now he set to steal Fëanor’s son. Fëanor would die first.

He gathered the terror up, compressed it as dirt is compressed deep within the earth under layers of mass and re-forged into a diamond. He transformed his terror into fury. He marched with it clenched in his fist towards the usurper.

Maedhros saw his coming before Fëanor’s strides had finished eating up the lawn. He rose to his feet to meet him. Fingolfin stood too, face falling into stillness, but something haughty, almost triumphant about the curve of his brow and the bow of his lips. Fëanor looked into Fingolfin’s eyes, found them bright and steady upon his, and called that brightness the glint of gloating.

Fëanor opened his mouth to tear Fingolfin to pieces like a she-bear would rip a man limb from limb who stood between her and her cub. Maedhros’ soft voice swung his eyes to his son’s before he could loose the bolt of vitriol in his lungs. “Father.”

Maedhros gathered Fëanor up inside his eyes and took him down a path of memories, using the Ósanwe Fëanor had taught him to dust Fëanor’s skin with jewels. Maedhros reminded him of a thousand tender moments of childhood where the love was so thick Fëanor could taste it in his mouth like roses. Maedhros showed him the ‘I love you’s’ spoken in words and spoken in hearts, and then he showed him the defining moments of his loyalty and love: the moment they first argued over one of Fëanor’s beliefs and Maedhros called Fëanor a dreamer but in the next breath said he would stand by his father’s side –always; the moment he had not hesitated to choose Fëanor over Nerdanel; and the moment he forsook Tirion and the love of his life to come home and not be parted from them for those hard years of healing.

The fury flowed out of Fëanor along with the fear. Maedhros closed the last steps between them and brushed his fingers against the back of Fëanor’s hand. Fëanor turned his fingers into the touch. They stood for a moment in a silence that delved too deep for words.

Then Fëanor’s eyes flickered over Maedhros’ shoulder and found Fingolfin’s watching them. He could not find the gloating triumph he’d thought he’d seen a moment before. He could find nothing but the smooth flesh of a face as unreadable as alabaster.

There was nothing to latch onto and grasp inside those features. They were as beautiful as they were poised with that practiced mix of pride and nobility Fëanor wanted to rip off. Masks, the unnatural discipline of self-mastery; the games of slick fish wiggling away to plot in the deep waters of an ocean hungry enough to swallow the world.

His lip curled at the Valar-blessed discipline Fingolfin reeked of, and the webs of intrigue woven like whispers into Fingolfin’s too-composed eyes.

Fëanor turned away. Their locked gaze had lasted no more than a few breaths. He didn’t favor Fingolfin with a word of acknowledgment. His hand went about Maedhros’ elbow, cupping the sharp point of bone. “Come with me.” He spoke with that crisp note of decisiveness that turned his words into an order. But Maedhros knew him, and knew that Fëanor’s intent had not been high-handed control.

Caught in the net of his fears, the match to the fears that found him rising in the dark of the night to seek the gentle sound of his sons’ slumbering breaths, Fëanor wished he could lock his sons away inside his heart where none could steal them from him and his own faults could not drive them away. But in the clarity of day he kept a check on such wild thoughts, and took a care not to burn his sons up in the fire of his possessive love. Too heavy a set of arms crushing them close and they would never stop trying to slip away to breathe.

Maedhros followed Fëanor from the garden and into an empty room. Fëanor closed the door behind them as Maedhros turned to face him. They watched each other for a moment. Assured though he was of Maedhros’ love, the cord pulling tight between them tasted of battle, and he hated it. But he could not banish the image of Maedhros’ sly smile and body leaning into Fingolfin’s.

How long had Maedhros entertained a friendship with Fingolfin that reached so much deeper then the chambers of a Council of Lords? How long had Maedhros sought out Fingolfin’s company for more than politics? How long had Maedhros been lying to Fëanor’s face?

“He is a two-faced politician.” Stay away from him; cast him from your heart. Come home, come home.

Maedhros shook his head, as much in denial of the words as a reflection of the disappointment in his eyes. “Father, I am a politician.”

Fëanor took a step forward, hand reaching but not close enough to touch. “No. You are nothing like him. Nothing.”

Maedhros held him within the intensity of his eyes. Though the look burned with brilliancy, Fëanor did not want to look away. He relished it. After a long moment in which it seemed neither dared to draw breath, Maedhros said, soft but not faltering, “How would you know? You do not know anything about him.”

Fëanor frowned. Of course he knew Fingolfin, he’d known him all his life, ever since Fingolfin was a child playing with his toy horse and climbing into Fëanor’s lap with admiring eyes—

Fëanor snipped off the thread of memoires, kicking back up to the surface and out of the deep, dangerous waters that left him vulnerable. He must not let his thoughts stray down there, into the past, when Fingolfin of today, the slippery politician, could be waiting just around the corner.

Fëanor knew what kind of breed of man Fingolfin was: a man of intrigue and secret ambitions. Fëanor did not know where Fingolfin really stood on even the most important issues of their time because Fingolfin never took a stand on anything. He feigned, he danced, he bowed out before a true commitment could be nailed down. He twirled away from truths to flitter about in the shadows; his tongue playing the two-faced game.

Fëanor closed the last step between them, and took his son’s shoulder in his hands. “Maedhros.” His gaze held his son’s, brought close. There was a guard in those eyes. It cut his heart. “Have you considered that he might only be pretending friendship with you for his own ends? Men like him, they never stop playing games—”

Maedhros stepped back, breaking the hold, face closing like a door. “You do not know him.” He said again. “Why can you not trust my judgment? Trust in me?”

“I do, I do trust you. But I do not trust him.”

“Do you think I would be so easily made a fool of?” Maedhros’ voice took him out of Fëanor’s reach. Fëanor’s throat constricted. He could not draw in enough air.

(Leave him, leave all of this, and come home. Throw off Fingolfin and whatever lies of friendship he has whispered to you, throw off that boy who has broken your heart every day for fifteen years when he chose a cheap moment with a hundred others over you, throw off this city with her court of games and blind-men and seductive challenges I know thrills you to win, and come home to the father and brothers who miss you.)

Fëanor closed the distance between them, captured his son’s neck between his palms, and drew their foreheads together, like the meeting of two bulls. He did not ask Maedhros to come home. He did not ask Maedhros to sever his false-friendship with Fingolfin. He did not ask these things because to do so would be to squeeze his son to death within his arms.

“I trust you,” he whispered. “I trust you. And I know you for no fool. Forgive me. I feared for you.” He had feared more to lose Maedhros then for Maedhros’ hurt if –when—Fingolfin’s false friendship was revealed, and for this Fëanor knew shame. He titled his mouth and pressed a kiss into Maedhros’ cheekbone. “Forgive me.”

Maedhros’ hands wrapped about the strength of Fëanor’s biceps, and he sighed into the embrace, breath going out of him like the shivering of leaves on the breeze. He rested a moment in the embrace, before pulling back.

“Father.” Maedhros paused on that one word that had been braided with a hundred tender and binding ones. “There is nothing to fear. I am not leaving you. I will always be your son, first and foremost. I wish…” His mouth dipped in sorrow. “I wish I could make you believe that. I would slay all the doubts that haunt you if I could, you know that, don’t you?”

Fëanor could not speak through the tightness in this throat. He nodded, his hands upon Maedhros’ shoulders holding tight as a sailor upon the ship’s rail in a storm.

“I share a friendship with Fingolfin, Father, but I would never choose him over you.” Fëanor swallowed. He could not bring himself to say he understood or that he accepted that friendship, so he said nothing. “It hurts you though. I knew it would hurt you to learn of it.” Maedhros whispered, eyes falling away from Fëanor’s face, brow creasing with guilt.

Fëanor could not bear to see his fears causing Maedhros pain. Maedhros had sacrificed enough of his life. Fëanor could not help the nature or his clinging love or the deep-rooted fears sunk into the heart of him, but he could protect his sons from them until the last gasp of his will. “You have the right to be friends with whomever you chose. And if a friendship with Fingolfin is what you want, then I will not stand in your way. I will learn to accept it.” Maedhros’ collarbones swelled under his thumbs with an indrawn breath. “I want whatever makes you happy.”

Maedhros smiled, the curves of his lips lit with love. “I have enjoyed my friendship with Fingolfin, but it will cool from this day forth.”

Fëanor frowned, searching Maedhros’ face. “Do not make yourself unhappy for my sake.”

Maedhros’ hand lifted to lie against one of Fëanor’s upon his shoulder. He still wore that tender smile. “I will not be unhappy. Fingolfin’s company was enjoyable, but not so dear to me that I would choose it at such a cost.”

Fëanor shook his head, though Maedhros gave him his heart’s desire. “I have not asked that of you. I never would.”

“I know. I am doing this because you did not ask.” Maedhros leaned in and gave his father a full embrace. “What son has been loved as well as I? It gives me happiness to make a sacrifice for you in turn.”

Fëanor closed his eyes and held his son back. His breast warred with delight and guilt, but he did not continue to try and dissuade Maedhros from forsaking his intimacy of friendship with Fingolfin. If Maedhros gave it up freely, Fëanor would cherish the gift.

He dropped his nose into Maedhros’ shoulder. His face fit nicely into the crook of his son’s neck, Maedhros long having pulled ahead of him in height. Maedhros asked what son had been loved more by their father, but the true wonder was what father had been more blessed in a son?


	19. Chapter 19

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 19

Fëanor and his family had yet to arrive, but already tempers flared. Tonight would be the House of Finwë’s first attempt at a family dinner since Fëanor brought his household ‘home’ to Tirion. It had taken months of cajoling by Finwë before Fëanor grudgingly agreeed to play at one big happy family. 

Galadriel started gripping first. She was at that cantankerous age when children convinced themselves they were far too grown-up to be a child. Finrod, as an elder brother, could make her see the wisdom in her parents’ wishes by convincing her their parents’ wishes were really hers from the start. But Finrod was away in Alqualondë, not here to sooth Galadriel’s ruffled feathers when she discovered the seating arrangements for the night (she’d been shuffled into a seat at the children’s table). 

Angrod and Aegnor accepted the placement with shrugs and a handful of grumbles when they learned of their similar placement. Their top requirement for a pleasant evening lay in being seated together. But they did not rush towards adulthood with Galadriel’s hunger and impatience. 

To make matters worse, Turgon was in Valmar courting his lady love, and not here to coax his sister into behaving. Aredhel sat apart, the picture of rebellion.

She should be out riding, drinking up the clean, wild air. Nothing soothed her like a horse and leagues and leagues of freedom. But Finwë had determined to gather as many of his family as possible tonight, so Aredhel commandeered an isolated window seat for herself. Her glare fended off anyone thoughtless enough to think of drawing her into conversation.

If the night was not already spiraling towards disaster, it was made still worse by Irimë’s presence. She had headed their father’s call, eager to be away from her home amongst the Vanyar. 

Fëanor and Irimë couldn’t sand each other. A night of them forced to sit though a dinner together promised to be torture. It was bad enough Indis would be seated across the long table from Finwë, in her rightful place as his wife. Fëanor had never been able to look at Indis in the seat Míriel once held without resentment clouding his face.

What had Finwë been thinking, trying to resurrect this old family tradition? There was a reason Fëanor had not attended one of these dinners since he ran away to Mahtan’s forges as a youth.

Fingon breezed into the oppressively silent room, Angrod and Aegnor on his heels. “Hello, Father.” Fingon went to Fingolfin first, and greeted him with a dazzling smile and swift embrace. “We didn’t miss any of the excitement, did we?”

Fingolfin relaxed into a laugh. “Your uncle and cousins have yet to stun us with their arrival.”

“Good. I’d hate to miss the show. Tonight is going to be legendary!”

“I did not realize you took such enjoyment in seeing the Fëanorion’s put in their place,” Irimë said with a smug little smile, reclining deeper into the couch she shared with Indis. Anairë and Eärwen, with Galadriel perched between them, occupied the opposite couch. 

The shift in position accentuated Irimë’s belly, rounding with her first child. Indis and Irimë sat side-by-side with their silk dresses of the highest quality, equally blue eyes, matching heads of golden curls, and long limbs possessing the color of gold-dust. They could have been twins, so closely did they resemble the other. 

Fingon raised a brow at the aunt he knew so little of. His eyes picked up a mischievous shine. “I have no doubt the Fëanorions will be in their proper place tonight. I have always found I like the view of my cousin Maedhros best when he stands in his proper place at my shoulder, as my equal. Don’t you agree, aunt?”

Before the conversation could descend into bickering, Finwë interjected, “Fingon, your friendship with your cousin does you both credit. Indeed, it has set my heart at ease to see its blossoming these past years, and I hope for more such friendships between my blood.” 

Fingon, Angrod, and Aegnor made their escape, Finarfin’s sons pausing to greet their father with a swift cling of fingertips. They settled on a cluster of chairs swept back from the main gathering, and strategically positioned about a game board. Fingon drew his young cousin’s into a game, their eyes only flickering over to watch a particularly entertaining exchange.

Finwë turned to Aredhel where she perched like some great, sharp-eyed bird of prey. “I noticed you have struck up a friendship with your cousin as well, Aredhel. How have you found ridding out with Celegorm?”

Aredhel had propped the window open. The brisk breeze picked up her black hair, and plastered her white dress against her lifted knees. She looked wild as a freeborn-stallion. She sliced a look back at her grandfather when he dared disturb her brooding, and crossed her arms under her breasts. “He is tolerable.”

She did not offer any other insight into the cousin she’d started hunting and riding with. Fingolfin could not even be sure ‘friendship’ was the proper name for whatever they shared. It seemed closer to a rivalry, but it was hard to tell with those two. 

Finwë laughed, and picked at what was better left alone, “That is not so charitable a description! I am sure when I ask Celegorm you would not like to be described as ‘tolerable!’ A young lady wishes for a good deal more than that.” He gave her an indulgent smile, sharing a look with Indis, as if Aredhel’s moodiness was the product of her youth. Finwë never had taken enough interest in Fingolfin and Finarfin’s children compared to the care he memorized ever scrap of knowledge he could ferret out about Fëanor’s brood.

Aredhel’s mouth turned down, arms tightening their embrace. “He can say whatever he wants about me. I hardly care. I do not ride out with him because he is a gentleman.” She snorted at the very idea.

“Well…” 

Before Aredhel abandoned her shred of politeness, Fingolfin took the opportunity to steer the conversation away. “Finarfin,” he turned to Finarfin who sat silent but poised, an observer of the room and its occupants. 

Since Galadriel’s birth, Finarfin became a more frequent visitor to the city, even opening a house for his family’s use. Fingolfin made a point of dinning with his brother regularly, attempting to re-build bridges long fallen into disrepair. Finarfin was no longer a stranger, but they did not share the true intimacy of brothers. 

“How have you found the city? This is your first visit without Finrod accompanying you.”

Finarfin favored Fingolfin with a smile, sincere in its intent, but lacking that merry shine Finarfin’s boyhood smiles always held. Fingolfin had accustomed himself to its absence. “I have found it strange. But Finrod is completing the last few weeks of his Mastery; he could not be torn away.”

Finwë turned to Finarfin. “What Mastery has Finrod been studying again?” Before Finarfin could answer, Finwë carried on. “He is so young yet. Most young men his age are busy with their friends and courting –except for Fëanor’s sons, but those young men are the cleverest of the land! Curufin received a Mastery in metal work before he reached his majority. Fëanor was the same, of course, but it is very uncommon. Maglor, as you know, is renowned for his musical talent, and Maedhros has a number of Masteries. I do not think I can even keep track of them all!” Finwë laughed, but he was the only one. “And of course there is Caranthir who has such a clever mind! He gives even Fëanor a—”

Fingolfin was so offended on Finarfin and Finrod’s behalf, he cut his father off. Really, how could Finwë not know of Finrod’s Mastery? It was only the first and last thing out of Finarfin’s mouth! “Finrod is also studying for a Mastery in the sculpting arts, and I imagine it will not be his last Mastery. Finrod is every bit as clever as Fëanor’s sons.”

“Yes, yes,” Finwë nodded, eyes flickering between Finarfin’s carefully controlled features and Fingolfin’s stern glaze. 

Finwë cleared his throat, looking away. At least their father recognized how discourteous his behavior had been. Unfortunately Fingolfin had lost hope Finwë would mend his ways and cease putting Fëanor and his sons above them all.

Indis turned a chiding look upon Finarfin, “You really should keep us informed of these things. I know organization is not your strong suit, but a few more letters from you would not be remiss. I feel as if we hardly know what goes on in your life or the lives of our grandchildren.” 

She turned to Fingolfin, favoring him with an entirely different look, pride etched into the lines of her face. “How thankful I am that you, my son, have made the proper effort in keeping your children close to home so your father and I can build relationships with them. That is as it ought to be. Now, Fingolfin, tell us all about Turgon’s young lady. She is from a good family. The House of the Lotus hold a respectable place in the Vanyar courts, and I’ve heard nothing but praise for Elenwë’s chaste and modest nature. Have you met the young lady yet? No, you are right, of course. It is not customary for a _poicindis_ to entertain the company of her courter’s male relatives until an understanding is reached. Is she Turgon’s intended yet?”

Fingolfin endured his mother’s digging, side-stepping her more probing inquiries. Turgon had given no official announcement of his intentions, though Fingolfin expected one shortly. 

Turgon had been in love with the idea of love since he was a child. He used to pick out tales of love conquering impossible obstacles for Fingolfin to read to him before bedtime. Fingon wanted stories of heroes and the slaying of monsters, but he used to curl up in bed beside Turgon with only a few token complaints, and listen bright-eyed to the love stories alongside his brother.

As Turgon grew and his head could not be turned by any male or female attempting to gain his favor, Fingolfin feared Turgon had set himself up to fall, imagining an impossible lover cut from the mold of perfection. But now, at last, Turgon had met a girl he smiled secret smiles over. A girl he could whisper all the deep secrets of his nature to without fear of rejection for she loved him for his earthy-steadiness, the wells of patience he wielded with such efficiency, his tender, protective love for his sister, the long silences and brooding hours spent at a window caught up in his own head, his love of lazy days spent reading in bed, stubborn insistence in his own rightness of thought, and that touch of the obnoxious when he spoke Vanyarin or Telerin around those unlearned, half to vent a frustration, half to show-off his intelligence.

Turgon had found love, and he had found it with a girl who loved him back. Oh fortunate son! Fingolfin wished such joy for all his children. Let them never know Fingolfin’s pain.

The Fëanorions announced their arrival with the snap of boot on stones. One of the Fëanorions’ voices rang out in a call to his brother, and laughter only this side of wild bounced off the corridor’s marble walls –that was Celegorm. 

The door to the Hearth Room flew open, and Caranthir marched in. He didn’t bother with greetings. He stalked across the room in that abrupt way of his, moving in crisp lines, nothing flowery or liquid in the way his body charged across the room. He picked an unoccupied corner, turned his back to the room, and fixed his eyes on the garden spread out beneath his chosen window.

Maglor glided in behind him. The way he moved snagged eyes away from Caranthir’s ridged back. Celegorm loped in at his shoulder, eyes doing a sweep of the room, as if seeking out potential threats, before flashing a sly smile at them all. Fingolfin couldn’t be the only one who noticed Celegorm had uncommonly pointy teeth, and liked to show them off. Fingolfin would not be surprised to learn Celegorm snarled like a wolf when the excitement of the hunt took him. He probably enjoyed the scent of his prey, and played with it, milking the animal’s fear.

Fingolfin’s eyes did not linger on his nephews, already slipping to the one he could never ignore, never resist. 

Fëanor walked into the room like he had thunder for bones. Fingolfin smelt a fiery August day, both the heat of the forge Fëanor still wore on his skin and a lanquidity that oozed into bones on a lazy summer day. It settled under Fingolfin’s tongue. He could almost imagine it was Fëanor’s skin he tasted.

He banished the alarming fantasy, slamming the walls of his mind down on it before it ragged out of control. All he smelt was a Fëanor who didn’t have the courtesy of bathing before infecting them with his presence.

Fëanor had pulled his hair back in a high-tale, but Fingolfin could tell it had recently been covered in a handkerchief from the way some of the strands had broken free to curl in humid little curls about Fëanor’s neck and brow.

Valar.

Fëanor’s tunic lay open at the neckline, his undershirt unlaced to torment them all with a flash of collarbones sharp as knives, and the dip of a throat Fingolfin could not help from staring at. It tempted him like the perfect nectar.

No! He would not—could not—do this all over again. He tore his eyes away, and forced his mind to follow the conversation Finwë and Fëanor had struck up –of course they had sought each other out the moment they were in a room together. Fëanor hadn’t come for anyone but their father. The rest of them could fall off the face of the Earth for all he cared.

But then Fëanor flicked a glance at Fingolfin, just when Fingolfin had finished pulling himself together again. The glance only last a breath, but it spanned an Age in Fingolfin’s mind. A sharp, assessing glance, as if what Fingolfin were doing or thinking was worth Fëanor’s attention for just that bare moment. It was enough to send Fingolfin’s heartbeat pounding in his wrists, as if it would jump out, leap from the curve of his neck. And then Fëanor looked away, and Fingolfin could have had his insides carved out, he felt that empty. And cold, as if fingers like winter had crawled up inside him and sucked out all the fire from his breast.

Fëanor.

Ever he did this. An endless cycle that gutted Fingolfin, and left him feeling like his heart had gotten stuck in the jaws of a dog, and was being torn ragged.

Fingolfin couldn’t bear it, so he lashed out as he ever did –because it hurt, because he was a desperate, pathetic fool in lust with a man who would never look back at him. When Fëanor’s eyes slid away, back to Finwë, without even a nod of acknowledgment (not that Fingolfin’s expected one), Fingolfin felt as forgotten as dust left to pile up in a corner.

“You should have sent word if you needed more time to prepare yourself for tonight’s dinner. We are all family here; we would not have minded the delay.” Fingolfin said with false sweetness. Fëanor looked at him now, but rather then turning eyes hot with anger at Fingolfin, amusement glittered in those slices of silver, bright as starglow. It was as if Fingolfin was so far below Fëanor his words could not touch him. 

Fingolfin clenched his jaw and dug again, voice dripping sarcasm, “You are, after all, the main attraction for tonight’s dinner. Now,” he turned to his father, ignoring the disappointment he found in Finwë’s eyes. “Shall we _finally_ begin the purpose of this evening and adjourn to the dining hall?”

Indis swept up from the couch, Irimë coming to stand as a unified pillar at her side. When she smiled at Fingolfin, a deep satisfaction in its curves, he felt sick. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. 

“An excellent suggestion, my son. Husband,” she put special emphasis on the word as she ever did in Fëanor’s presence. It was the little things. The single, deliberately cruel word had Fëanor’s back stiffening as it always did. “To the dining hall, don’t you think?” Indis held out her hand for Finwë to escort her.

Finwë sighed, shoulders slumping a degree. Lines had carved themselves into his brow, deeper each year, but Finwë used his exhaustion with his family’s bickering like a weapon. Fingolfin had ceased allowing Finwë to manipulate them all with a single heavy sigh and pleaded look.

Fingolfin’s jaw tightened now. How dare his father pretend he was removed for the petty jabs and simmering resentments in this room as if he had done nothing to further their spreading? Finwë was no blameless party, not with his blatant favoritism towards everything Fëanor.

“Very well,” Finwë touched Fëanor’s arm, before taking his wife’s hand and leading her from the room.

Fëanor followed immediately after, Curufin, with his young son on his hip, keeping close to his father. Fëanor’s sons followed one after the other, Maedhros lingering last so Fingon could catch him at the door. Without Fëanor to police their exchanges, Fingolfin sought Maedhros’ eye. 

Maedhros had been scarce about court since Fëanor caught Fingolfin and Maedhros together. Fingolfin respected Maedhros’ wish to keep his distance until Fëanor’s temper cooled and Maedhros could turn his alliance with Fingolfin into something beneficial for the House of Fëanor with that clever tongue of his, so Fingolfin had not attempted to catch him in a private moment. But Fingolfin could sorely use his friend’s leveling presence and witty comebacks tonight, discreet as the support would have to be.

But when Maedhros’ eyes met his, Fingolfin received nothing but a cool, distant nod, before Maedhros strode out of the room beside Fingon. Fingolfin paused to collect himself, waving Finarfin to go before him. 

Fingolfin kept his head up, and walked beside his wife to the dining hall. Anairë parted from his side immediately, gravitating to Eärwen. Traditionally, Anairë would sit at Fingolfin’s side, but the women clustered together at Indis’ end of the table, and Finarfin graciously gave up his seat to his wife’s dearest friend.

Indis had followed proprieties demands in the seating arrangements, with Fëanor seated at Finwë’s right and his sons taking up the remaining seats on the right side of the table. Fingolfin took Finwë’s left-hand, Fingon sliding into the place beside him as his firstborn.

Fingon lent in close to Fingolfin as they took their places. “What’s wrong?”

Fingolfin’s gaze flickered to the Fëanorions. Too close for a confession even if he would have burdened Fingon with it. He would not allow any taint to come upon Fingon and Maedhros’ friendship though. “It is nothing.”

Fingon did not look convinced, but he let it go, but not before finding his father’s hand under the table and giving a light squeeze. With that one gesture, Fingolfin’s heart lightened, and he began to hope again.

Maedhros must have deemed it too soon to reform their friendship, that was all. And yet how easily Maedhros could have quirked his mouth, or raised a brow. He need not have spoken to have passed the message between them. But he had not. 

No, it was too soon to jump to the worst conclusions. 

Not everyone accepted the seating arrangements with silence. 

“Curufinwë sits beside me.” Curufin glared at the six chairs set out on the table’s right side –the underage twins being forced to dine opposite Galadriel, Angrod, and Aegnor. An empty seat at the children’s table awaited Curufinwë.

Not even a peep came out of Curufinwë as Curufin and Indis fought, without outright fighting, over the seating arrangements. Fëanor settled the dispute in his high-handed manner. He fetched the chair from the children’s table and planted it decidedly on the right-hand side of the adult’s table. 

Indis’ mouth drew into a white line, her eyes silently demanding Finwë support her, but Finwë avoided her gaze. Curufinwë climbed into his seat, his head cresting the table’s top, but his arms nowhere near long enough to reach his drinking glass. His dark grey eyes blinked out at them from over his plate, the bottom half of his face hidden by the high table.

Celegorm laughed. Curufin’s mouth twitched and he allowed, “Up on your knees then, but just for tonight. You should not form poor eating habits unless in exceptional circumstances such as these.” With his father’s permission, Curufinwë tucked his feet under to bring himself to a comfortable height.

Fingon struck up a lively conversation with Maedhros seated across from him, perfectly at ease, as if the tension running down to the very stones beneath them could not touch him. The servants came about with the first course, and Fingolfin vainly attempted not to look at Fëanor. An impossible task as his half-brother sat directly across from him.

Finwë sampled the soup, fishing out a parsnip, before turning to Fëanor and beginning his inquiry on all things Fëanor that would last the course of the dinner. Their father would make no special effort to pull any of his other children into the discussion.

Fingolfin wished he could tune them out, for the principle of the thing, if nothing else, but Fëanor was as impossible to ignore as ever. Fingolfin’s eyes lingered on the expressive gestures as Fëanor spoke of his sons, the blazing light in his eyes as he spoke of his newest project, the sound of his voice that rolled over Fingolfin in a unique blend of ignition and decadence.

Fëanor steadfastly ignored Fingolfin throughout.

Fingolfin’s eyes slipped to Maedhros at intervals, seeking a single shared glance. How many courtly parties and stuffy lord’s dinners had they shared, each one made bearable by the little looks and sly smiles they shared across the room until they found themselves standing side-by-side, nursing a wine glass, as they surveyed the room and its inhabitants, Maedhros’ cutting wit making short work of their political opponents while Fingolfin contained his laughter to his eyes.

Tonight, when Maedhros’ gaze happened to pass over Fingolfin, he received only the cool regard of a distant acquaintance, before Maedhros shifted his attention back to Fingon or Maglor. With each look, Fingolfin’s hopes that Maedhros employed this new distance only under his father’s watch faded.

He knew where to lay the blame. His eyes slid off Maedhros’ profile and to the one whose paranoia and jealousy had caused this. He had to keep the surprise off his face when he found Fëanor’s eyes already upon him. Fëanor’s gaze flickered to Maedhros in a telling glance, before settling on Fingolfin again. Fëanor raised a smug brow, holding his son’s regard first and foremost, and telling Fingolfin with that one look that he had meant nothing.

He’d not been foolish enough to think their friendship could ever mean enough to Maedhros for Maedhros to pick Fingolfin over his family, but his heart could not stop itself from aching to see how easily Maedhros had tossed aside Fingolfin’s friendship, as if it really had meant nothing. Surely, surely, they had shared too much to become nothing more than cool acquaintances?

Damn Fëanor. Damn him. He had everything Fingolfin wanted, and made sure to rub it in his face. It was Finwë all over again. Fëanor had taken the best thing to happen to Fingolfin since his children’s birth. And that was pathetic. But for all the fulfillment his service to the Noldor brought him, it was not friendship, not intimacy, not love.

Fingolfin’s eyes bored into the side of Fëanor’s face as Fëanor dismissed him again to pick up the thread of his conversation with Finwë. Fingolfin stared at those cultured bones, and wanted to see what they felt like under the sting of his backhand. But he had something Fëanor could not touch: control. So Fingolfin hooded his eyes as he plotted how to make Fëanor feel even a measure of the pain in his own chest.

The conversations carried on around him. Maglor’s sparkling laughter soaked into their skin like jewels, Maedhros grinning his breath-stealing smile back as Fingon watched the brothers with merriment. Celegorm had drawn Aredhel into a conversation with the power of his ribbing, and now the two threw insults and dares back and forth. Fingolfin could never quite tell in their banter was teasing or taunts, maybe a mixture of both. Caranthir ignored everyone. Curufin conducted a hissed conversation that was defiantly insults with Irimë at the far end of the table, in between dicing up Curufinwë’s food and refilling his son’s glass with milk. Eärwen and Anairë were off in their own little world, shutting the rest of them out from their secret friendship. And Indis, without Fingolfin near enough to hover about, pushing or hanging off him in turn, had turned her attentions to Finarfin, picking at him over his absences and his neglect in bringing his children more often for visits.

Fingolfin tuned his ear to Fëanor and Finwë’s conversation which skirted around a potential argument. Perfect. 

Fëanor said, leaning forward, caught up in passion of his work, “I am confident the Palantíri posses the ability to breach the seas’ expanse, and yet a Power veils their eye. I have conducted experiments, but as of yet have not discovered a way of subverting this interference. There can be no doubt it is a Vala –whether Melkor or Manwë remains to be determined—who controls this barrier with the intent of blinding me. But it is only a matter of time before I trump all their efforts.”

Finwë made a non-committal sound in the back of this throat. Silence was his latest method of dealing with Fëanor’s anti-Valar beliefs.

Fingolfin spoke up, holding the reigns of his voice tight in his fist, letting only a politely neutral tone slip through. “Father could assist you in your investigations, Fëanor.” Fëanor’s eyes snapped to Fingolfin’s face, but Fingolfin didn’t let the thrill slip into his eyes. Fingolfin turned to their father with a deceptively helpful look. “Father, you have been meeting with the Maia Curumo, perhaps you could mention the problem Fëanor is encountering?”

All three of them knew Fingolfin had not spoken to be of assistance, and Finwë set Fingolfin another of his disappointed looks even as Fëanor’s nostrils flared. Fëanor did not give Fingolfin the satisfaction of questioning Finwë on entertaining Ainur, but he didn’t need to for Fingolfin to know the knowledge would eat at him until he did. Fëanor wouldn’t be able to get the thought of what Finwë discussed with the Valar out of his head. And worse, why, if these meetings were innocent, had Finwë never mentioned them before?

The conversation suitable poisoned, Finwë and Fëanor fell into silence. Seeing his revenge accomplished did not lessen the hollow ach in Fingolfin’s own chest.

This time, when Fëanor’s eyes burnt into the skin of his face, Fingolfin felt no thrill. He could not deceive himself to the fact that those eyes held nothing but contempt, and for once, he would have traded Fëanor’s eyes on him for their customary effortless slid away.

Fingolfin was almost relieved when Curufin and Irimë’s hissed argument escalated, and all eyes turned to watch Curufin shove back his chair, the wood scraping over the marble with a screech.

Curufin did not speak. He looked down at Irimë, holding her like a butterfly pinned to a board, watching its dying wing flaps impassively. All the bones of his face had sharpened until his jaw seemed to cut against his skin and his cheekbones stood out like curved blades carved high and proud. The look in his eyes brought to mind the scent of frost and the churning grey of a snowstorm.

The room hung poised on the edge of a knife, so silent the scuttling of a mouse would have echoed.

“What is the meaning of this?” Finwë broke the silence.

Irimë blinked innocent blue eyes at Finwë. “I was just going over some concerns I had for Curufinwë, Father. How hard it must be to raise a son without his mother.” Her hand went to her belly.

Finwë’s mouth tightened. “Do not give me that look, Daughter. I am no fool, and I know exactly how challenging you have found it to treat your brother and his children with proper courtesy. Now. Apologize”

Irimë’s nostrils flared. “You did not hear how he spoke to me! I will not be bow my head to such insults!”

“Really, Husband,” Indis frowned at Finwë. “I hardly think you are being far to Irimë. Curufin did indeed insult her in a most shocking manner.”

Caranthir’s fork and knife clattered to his plate. His cheeks infused with red, nearly erasing the cupful of freckles dashed across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. His brows pulled tight and dark against each other, their thickness contrasted with the shapely thinness of his mouth and lent him the appearance of a glaring hawk as the anger took over. “That _bitch_ deserved it, the way she was going on.”

Irimë’s swooped down on him, snapping back, “What concern of this is _yours_? Any simpleton can see how much you despise him.”

Caranthir sprang to his feet, the position putting him shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother. “Don’t _dare_ speak of things you know nothing about!”

“Or what?” Irimë challenged.

“Or I will deal with you, _Half-sister_ ,” Fëanor twisted the word into an obscenity.

Irimë tossed aside Caranthir to fix her glare on her true enemy, ignoring Finwë’s words alternatively calling for peace and engaging in his own argument with Indis. “Deal with me, will you? Like you deal with poor Nerdanel? I heard you have even denied her the right to see her own children. I knew you to be selfish in nature, _Half-brother_ , but I did not realize you were a brut!”

“You have shown –yet again—and astonishing interest in my family’s business. Tell me, is it your custom to sniff out every rumor circling me and mine, or pure happenstance that you ever seemed to be up-to-date on the latest?” Fëanor’s eyes glinted, lip curling. “One would think all your hate was rooted in jealousy.”

Irimë threw her head up, neck a proud line. “Jealousy? You wish. I see nothing to be jealousy of.” She raked a disdainful glance over her half-brother.

“Enough!” Finwë’s voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding as a trumpet blast. They granted him silence. Finwë pinned Irimë with his sad but steely gaze first. “You will apologize to Curufin. Now.”

Her hands clenched into fists. “And what of Caranthir? Will you demand the same of him?”

“Caranthir was reasonably provoked, though he should not have insulted you in such a manner.”

“Unbelievable.” Indis rose from her chair like the queen she was. She held her head high, and looked down her nose first at Fëanor, blaming him for every insult, the ones flown from his mouth as well as his sons, but most, for holding Finwë’s loyalty first and foremost as he ever did.

No surprise shocked Fingolfin at his father’s blatant favoritism, but even though Irimë was far from innocent, Fingolfin had had _enough_ of this. “So it seems the blood of Fëanor is worthy of excuses –though Caranthir called your daughter a bitch at your table—while all others must bent over backwards to apologize when they will receive no apology in return?” Fingolfin did not stand. He’d kept his voice soft, yet carrying in the tension of the moment, and met his father’s eyes unflinchingly, _daring_ Finwë to look away. “The House of Indis comes second yet again.”

“Fingolfin…” Finwë faltered, reaching out to lay a hand on Fingolfin’s arm. “That is not how it is. I intended to have Caranthir apologize as well, but Irimë must go first.”

Fëanor, eyes digging into the place Finwë’s hand rested on Fingolfin, said, “My son will not be apologizing. He has nothing to apologize for.”

Finwë snatched his hand away, all his attention centered again on Fëanor. “Now, Fëanor, that is hardly fair. Insult was given. It is proper for Caranthir to make amends.”

“The giving of an apology implies regret.” Fëanor turned to his son. “Do you regret your words?”

Caranthir crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at Irimë as if his gaze could turn her to stone. “ _No_.”

“Well then, that settles that.”

“Fëanor…” But Finwë did not press. He never did. He let out a sigh they’d all heard before and knew the meaning of. Fëanor had gotten his way.

Irimë sniffed. “I don’t know why I even bothered coming here. Things never change.” She turned in a swirl of skirts. “I am afraid I’ve lost my appetite. Watching your fawning, Father, has quite turned me off my meal.” She stalked out, radiating haughty pride. Indis followed her with one last judging glance for her husband. 

The meal broke up, one by one taking their leave. As Fingolfin watched Finwë draw close to Fëanor’s side, a consoling hand on his son’s shoulder, whispered words in Fëanor’s ear, Fingolfin rose and put his back to the scene. 

The messy argument left Fingon undaunted, already picking up his conversation with Maedhros again. Maedhros’ face angled carefully away, twisted in Fingolfin’s gut like worms. This evening left him with nothing but sickness and an empty hollow below his ribs.


	20. Chapter 20

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 20

The wooden head of a lion mounted above the scarlet door marked the establishment as the public house they sought. Fëanor pushed the red door open, Curufin stepping in behind him. 

The scent of baking bread and roasting meat intermingled with rosemary and thyme. A skylight washed the entry hall in gold. A cat, tail swinging a lazy curl, lounged in a ray of warmth tucked into a long crevice in the wall that served as animal perch and a display of the artistry talents the house was able to afford. 

The establishment was near the university and amphitheater, not far from the artisans sectors in the city, and made an effort to appear refined. The sculptures were nothing of note, the hand that had wielded the chisel not possessing the ear and patience listening for the stone’s true form required. And the murals covering the walls from floor to ceiling were lively but uninspired. But a singer’s voice floating out from the common room, carrying the clear notes of a flute mingled with the deeper throat of strings, was of a higher-quality entertainment than the décor.

“Do you come for meal or bath, lords?” The hostess gestured to the left and right, offering two archways. One led to a common room crowed with tables, the musicians set up in the far corner. Golden light poured in from the many windows and the honey-tones of wood and scarlet-dominated murals lent the room a welcoming air. The other archway led to public baths, one male, one female, open for the price of a single copper coin.

“A meal,” Fëanor said. The woman nodded briskly, and gestured for them to make themselves comfortable. 

They stepped through the archway and into the room proper. Heads turned as they wove their way through the tables, a few eyes widened in recognition, but none named them in a shout of surprise. Fëanor’s sweeping gaze found the one he sought and made his way over to the woman’s table. She’d selected one set a little ways apart from the crowd, with a view of the garden courtyard the public house shared with the rest of its city block. 

The woman and her companion looked up as Fëanor and Curufin crossed to them. Curufin took the chair by the window where the light pooled warm and rich, and Fëanor claimed the chair across from the stranger.

He spoke to the woman known to him, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. “Halvel, you requested this meeting. You said you had something important to discuss?”

Halvel’s cheeks pinked as he turned the weight of his gaze upon her. She cleared her throat, folding her hands upon the table neatly and returned his gaze with confidence despite the fluster in her cheeks. Good. She was one of his; he would not see her shy from approaching her lord. She had certainly been bold enough by letter.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Master Fëanor, and Master Curufin,” she nodded at Curufin, giving him the title he’d earned before he’d even reached his majority, so talented and clever was Fëanor’s son. “I had not believed you would answer the request of a lowly farmer’s daughter—”

Fëanor waved the words away. “Do not disparage your parents who are both good and loyal people, nor yourself. You study at the university, and are a promising student in your chosen field of healing. Your recent dissertation comparing the medicinal qualities of foxglove and quinine, two long overlooked flowers, was excellent.”

The stranger’s eyes widened. “You read Halvel’s paper? You. Prince Fëanor!” The girl turned a look fairly bursting with giddiness on Halvel.

“Shh, Innel,” Halvel hissed, cheeks flushing dark as roses, but her head carrying a noticeable uptilt of pride. As well it should.

“I have,” Fëanor answered. “Not only is she one of my people, she is also one of the most promising students in her field.”

“It is only through your generosity that I have a place at university at all, my lord,” the girl said with a meekness Fëanor did not like. Too closely did it walk with shame. She had nothing to feel ashamed of in her birth or her parents’ need to seek out financial assistance to send their clever and ambitious daughter to the finest institute for the Healing Arts in the land. 

“It is my pleasure to ensure the highest education for every mind under my care. Now,” Fëanor pushed on. “You called me here for a reason.”

“Yes,” Halvel nodded crisply, shoulders straightening. “Innel,” she gestured at her friend, “Is a student with me at university in the Healing Arts. Her field of expertise is a controversial one: surgery.”

Fëanor made a humming noise, gaze fixing on Innel. Despite her earlier moment of gushing excitement, alert eyes met his, the kind of eyes that never paused in their inventory of the world and its inhabitants. 

Innel leaned forward. “Prince Fëanor, I have a favor to ask of you. One I think you will be interested in fulfilling.”

“Go on,” Fëanor leaned back, feeling Curufin shift in his watchful poise beside him.

“I am, as Halvel said, a student of the body. As a Master of your competency and breadth must be aware, our research into the healing of serious bodily injury is handicapped. We cannot study injuries that do not exist, and we cannot dissect the healthy in the pursuit of what lies under this layer of tissue.” Her nails scratched lightly along the inside of her forearm, leaving a momentary imprint of white lines in the skin.

“You sound almost regretful that more of our people are not bashing their heads open against rocks,” Curufin said, arching a brow.

She laughed, leaning back in her seat and breaking off her passionate monologue. “I do some days, I admit. But how would you feel, lord, if the metal and gem mines were all closed tomorrow and you had only the pieces that had already passed over your anvil to re-work over and over again in your thirst for knowledge?”

Curufin smirked, “I would break open the mines, of course.”

“Then you must forgive me for fantasizing of massive traumas finding their way to my surgery table, lord,” she smiled.

“What is it you want of me?” Fëanor asked.

Innel plunged a hand into her robe that bore the crest of her position as apprentice healer, and pulled out a book bound in dark leather. She settled it onto the table between them like a gem, hands lingering to caress its smooth cover. “This is a book Master Loagel, who instructs the apprentices in the field of surgery at university, has written. He has compiled a host of new discoveries and research into the Elven-body. It is a work that will revolutionize our understanding of ourselves, and provide even the most grievously injured with a chance of retaining their bodies in this life. But at every turn my Master has been blocked, the book shunned for its ‘potentially disturbing’ nature.”

Fëanor reached for the book, sliding it across the table. Curufin leaned into his side as he flipped it open. Fëanor’s eyes flew over the pages, pausing at diagrams depicting what must be an Elven-heart. He soaked in the conformation that Elven hearts had values and chambers just like an animal’s, and flipped on to a drawing of that mysterious organ the human brain which he had only ever glimpsed once. One of his stone-masons had received a head-injury so serious the skull had crack enough to see a glimmer of spongy white tissue beneath. 

He thumbed on through the book, mind expanding like the dilation of pupils at the influx of never-before seen knowledge. The circulation system, the nervous system, the insides of bones, a diagram detailing how nutrients moved through the stomach.

“Where did he attain such knowledge?” Fëanor’s voice came breathless with the excitement of it all.

There was a pause Fëanor only noted like the landing of a fly, not worth pulling himself out of this new world to explore. Then the girl said: “My Master is deep in the confidence of Lord Melkor. It was the lord who shared these secrets with him.”

Fëanor dropped the book, recoiling. The girl hurried on, explaining how she needed Fëanor’s help, the help of his scholars and scribes, to publish the book. She went on about its ground-breaking significance, how it would change the face of healing, while Fëanor stared down at a depiction of a woman, belly full of child. The words blurred together on the page.

Melkor had acquired such intimate knowledge of the workings of an Elven-body by pulling them apart, bone by bone, peel of flesh by peel. He had dragged them away in the dark and dissected them. Fëanor did not have to be told this was true to know it in his heart. This book was comprised of knowledge Elves had died for, been tortured and torn apart for, all for the amusement and curiosity of a Vala.

Curufin’s pale hand landed on the book’s cover. He didn’t hesitate to take the book. He opened it, and continued his perusal where it had been cut off. 

Fëanor stared at him. Curufin’s brows drew tight in concentration, and the light caught in his eyes, lending them the silver-shine of Fëanor’s own. Silver clasps held the braids back from his face, and in profile the hollow under his sharp cheekbone threw shadows. His fingers tapped out a rhythm as he read. It could have been Fëanor himself sitting there. A wiser Fëanor.

The book lured Fëanor’s eyes back, drawn despite himself, fingers itching for that wealth of knowledge under their tips. Curufin was right. Elves had died for this knowledge, but it would be better to use it in the hope it saved other Elven lives than scorn it for the horror of its source. Fëanor was not in the habit of eating out of Melkor’s palm, but nor was he in the habit of scorning knowledge, especially vital knowledge.

“It is not like the sham Melkor would have made of our Guilds,” Curufin’s quiet voice spoke truth. 

Melkor had attempted to infiltrate various craftsman Guilds shortly after the Valar demonstrated their considerate care for the Elves by granting Melkor free reign over Valinor. Melkor had been successful in his endeavor in select circles –those craftsmen so hungry for glory and praise they bent their necks to anyone and tried to palm-off the knowledge Melkor whispered in their ears as their own—but Melkor had found no welcome among Fëanor’s people. They would attain their knowledge and skill honestly, without the hand-out of a Vala.

Curufin spoke truth though; this was not Melkor’s knowledge to hand out like treats to his favorite dogs. This was theirs. Their bodies. Their long-lost kin whose hearts and nerves and brains these diagrams depicted and the research analyzed.

“It will be published,” Fëanor promised in the voice of steel. They would reclaim what had been stolen from them and made into a Vala’s science experiment.

Curufin fell into a discussion with the healers, picking up passion like a rockslide momentum. Fëanor settled in for a meal, calling a serving girl over. He did not begrudge the time lingered over it, for he enjoyed sharpening his mind against two in possession of intellect and intimate knowledge in disciplines he’d not thrown himself into the study of. 

Fëanor dug into his meal and a debate on Healing Songs. The healers were of the opinion the power of music had little use outside soothing minor injuries and calming a patient’s nerves. Fëanor disagreed. While there was scant research gathered on the healing of spirits and minds, he had read it all as a youth seeking his mother’s healing. The power of music was one their people employed as a healing argent unconsciously, and in some cases like his son, consciously. Maglor was attuned to every note, every harmony, every rhythm, and noted with careful observation their affect on his listeners. Fëanor stored this debate away to be unpacked with Maglor later tonight. He would see what his son made of the healer’s arguments.

Their discussion circled to disembodied fëa, a topic Fëanor had conducted more researching into than any other Elf alive. He let Innel steer their conversation there, as she aimed. The injustices their people’s houseless sprites suffered under the Valar’s meddling was one that could occupy him for days straight.

Curufin was in the middle of punctuating his impassioned argument with his hands when a man stopped at their table. Fëanor looked up, arching a brow. “Yes?”

“Forgive me, Prince Fëanor, but a lord seeks an audience with you. He has rented an upper room for privacy,” he pointed out the staircase leading to the houses’ boarding rooms.

“His business?”

The man bit his lip. “I did enquire, lord, but he would not give it.”

“Very well,” Fëanor rose. Curufin made to stand with him, but Fëanor waved him back. “I will only be a moment. Stay, enjoy yourself.”

“Father—” Curufin’s face betrayed his worry. 

After Fëanor’s most recent speech calling for a ban on crafting the Valar’s images, Maedhros had sat all his brothers down to convey just how sharp the knife’s edge they walked upon had become. Fëanor tolerated a son tagging along every time he left home; he understood fear for those one loved. But the Valar were not going to ambush him in a public house. They wouldn’t ambush him at all. They would call him before their thrones to judge him so that all could watch as they discredited him and his words. Or they would try.

Fëanor touched his son’s shoulder, squeezing the hard muscle gently. “Do not worry so.” Curufin relented with a look promising pain if Fëanor got himself harmed in his stubbornness. Fëanor flashed a smile back.

The stairs creaked their age under him. The second, seventh, and tenth step needed replacing, and the support beams should really be looked at as well. That was the problem with building in wood. It started rotting away after a century if not maintained. Now stone work, if properly maintained, could out last a millennium. 

Fëanor eyed the wrote-iron banister. There were pockets of rust. The roof must be faulty. Poor stewardship. Weathering could be the death of even steel after a few centuries if not maintained.

He walked down a hall as brightly scarlet as the common room. Cats lazed along it, flicking their ears and twitching their tails as he passed. He stopped at the forth door down. Along with the carving of a lion, it bore scratch marks and a patch of newer paneling from some past altercation. It could have been a brawl, or a wardrobe improperly handled.

As he was expected, Fëanor didn’t pause to knock, but strode right in. He caught a first impression of a tall, raven-dark haired figure dressed rich as a lord at the window, before the man turned. Fëanor’s mouth curled into reflexive distain when Melkor’s subtly mocking eyes met his.

“What do you want?” He snapped, already turning to go. He did not answer to the beck and call of filth.

“But you already have, haven’t you?” Fëanor slammed up his mind-shields, cursing the momentary lapse. Melkor smirked. “Such a temper.”

Fëanor sneered, and gave the Vala his back as he strode to the door. It slammed shut in his face. The aftertaste of wind hot and dry like that blown off a forest fire struck him in the face. He spun around. Melkor hadn’t moved a muscle. He’d shut the door with a thought. 

Melkor raised one perfectly arched brow, mouth still wearing superiority. “I have not finished with you. Have a seat,” a long, pale hand gestured to a set of chairs before a cold hearth.

Fëanor ignored the offer and crossed his arms over his chest. The wrath crawled under his skin, screaming its fury, but the fear was contained in the rapid beat of his heart stabbing the rhythm of cages and power imbalances against his ribcage. 

Melkor dropped his hand. “As you wish.” He studied Fëanor for a long moment. Fëanor did not care for the look in his eyes. 

Melkor prowled closer, and Fëanor’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t yield a step. He would not put his back to the wall. Melkor stopped within arm’s length. Fëanor’s nostrils expanded with the scent of him: the metals of the earth, stardust, and brimstone.

“Well, Fëanor,” Melkor’s voice dropped low as a caress in the pocket between them. “You succeeded in your wish to gain the Valar’s attention. They had all eyes and ears honed in on you. Did you know Manwë called a council to decide what to do about you? What do you think the odds were it would have ended with you called before them to answer for your seditious words?”

Fëanor’s head held high. “I would call them good odds.” He leaned closer, lips curling to reveal the sharp whites of his teeth. “And I would call it a victory. The Valar would think to make me stand before them and answer for my deeds, but I would make them answer for theirs!”

Melkor laughed, the sound obscene in the way in coiled in Fëanor’s belly, snake-like. Melkor’s eyes lingered over the shape of his face in a way that made things crawl under his skin. “You underestimate your opponent. But if I did not know my kin as well as I do, I would bet in your favor on the sole ticket of sheer willpower and zeal.”

Fëanor scoffed. “I do not require or wish for your vote.”

Melkor’s smile deepened, bright and sharp as cut diamonds. “You should. In fact, you should care very much for my favor, for it was I who turned the Valar’s eyes from you. I spoke on your behalf and soothed their fear –for they do fear you, but you should not be without fear of them in turn. It is on my account that you walk free and unhindered by Maiar spies through the streets.”

“I did not ask for your help!” Fëanor hissed, rage exploding in the backs of his eyes so that all he could see was the haughty bones of Melkor’s face and his mocking mouth. He would not get on his knees with gratitude for this creature!

“If you had not had it you would be standing before the Valar now while they demanded your subservience and twisted your arm until you gave it. You are not a mere nuisance to them. You are a threat.” Melkor took far too much pleasure in these words. Nothing Fëanor did should give him pleasure.

Fëanor’s chest heaved, breathing in Melkor’s scent in the air. “Stay out of my business!”

Melkor’s eyes lingered over Fëanor’s face, trailed down his body shaking with fury. There was no mistaking the lust glittering in their darkness. But Melkor settled back on his heels, as if confident Fëanor would come to him. “Have you discerned their minds? Or are they an enemy you know as little of as a bird is acquainted with the depths of the ocean.”

Fëanor made a disgusted noise. He saw right through Melkor. What mouth had spilled the tidbit of the Palantíri’s limitations into Melkor’s ear would never be known, but Melkor would milk this knowledge like a carnivore sucking the marrow from a bone.

“Ah,” Melkor drew out the sound, like licking the last of the honey from a comb. “Still blind and deaf in the dark?”

Fëanor wanted to gorge out Melkor’s eyes, and didn’t censure the scorch of his gaze. Melkor basked under the fire, as if it was everything he’d ever wanted. He had the audacity to lick his lips. “Such spirit,” he purred. “Such fire.” 

Melkor’s hand rose towards Fëanor’s face. Fëanor slapped the greedy, grasping hand aside before it could lay its pollution into his skin.

Melkor tutted, as if Fëanor were a misbehaving dog. “So hasty, so reckless even after I have demonstrated, yet again, how valuable my favor could be for you. Ah, well,” Melkor used the rejected fingers to trace the shape of his own smirking mouth. 

“I am done here.” Fëanor cut his hand through the air between them.

Before he could storm away, Melkor said, “Do you not wonder at the barrier the Valar have lifted against your Seeing-Stones?” Fëanor was held, despite his better judgment because yes, this question had burned in him. What lay beyond the Valar’s obscuring veil that they were so desperate to hide? “The time grows close now. The Valar will take special care lest you –or any of the Firstborn—knew what was coming.”

Fëanor held his stony silence, refusing to be baited, refusing to ask for anything, even a crumb from Melkor’s table. Melkor’s smile curled sly, goading. “I know your mind, Fëanor. It runs after knowledge like the most accomplished seductress, gnawing on every bone until you have consumed all the scraps and licked up the juices behind. So what will you do now? Force your will into your little stones and make them show you or bleed out all your Power in the attempt? I would not blame you. I would do the same if it were my inheritance threatened.”

Fëanor’s mind leapt upon that, unable to help itself. His birthright was the legacy of his mother, Queen of the Noldor, and one of his last connections with his father. Would Fingolfin go so far as to steal it from him? Fëanor’s heart rebelled, that kernel inside which had never stopped lov—but his reason hardened him. Of course Fingolfin would. Fingolfin had already proven himself capably of worming into Finwë’s confidence and setting himself up in the place of heir. Yet the logic ran short when it slammed into the question of how something in Endor could challenge his birthright.

Unless it was not Fingolfin but the Valar who posed the threat, and Melkor was the most cunning and treacherous of the lot.

“The Valar will keep the knowledge of what approaches from you. But I will prepare you for this threat, if you but take my hand,” Melkor’s fingers unfolded between them, tapered to fine points as white as winter. You need me.” Melkor delivered the words with savor.

Fëanor’s hands dropped to fist at his sides, fingers curling with the urge to strike the smirk off Melkor’s face. He thrummed with the power of his rage, leaning into the careful barrier of distance between their bodies, mouth a snarl. “I need nothing from you! Not your assistance or your forked-knowledge or your tainted Power!” 

Melkor’s breath came fast and heavy, eyes hot and close. His gaze dropped down to Fëanor’s mouth. Fëanor’s jaw tightened. The Vala had best not dare.

Melkor’s gaze came up again, smoldering, to clash with Fëanor’s. “You need all three of those and more if you hope to break free of the Valar’s possession.”

Blood roared like a firestorm through Fëanor’s veins. “I and my people are no one’s possession!”

Melkor arched a brow. “Are you not? If the Noldor are truly sovereign, then why have you been prevented from leaving lands you entered freely? Think you the Valar will allow you to walk unhindered from their grasp?” Fëanor’s mouth tightened. Melkor shoved his questions down Fëanor’s throat. “What shall you do when the Valar stand before you in uncloaked Power? Spit fiery, rebellious words at them like a child throwing a tantrum at their parents’ feet? Will you throw petty spears as you would take down a boar? Perhaps you will stand helpless as babes and watch Manwë sweep your arrows from the sky like so much wisp of cloud.”

“I will tell you what we will not do,” Fëanor ground out, through his heart beat the rhythm of trapped, trapped, trapped in his chest. “We will not bow down to you and kiss your hem and take you for lord and protector!”

Fëanor made to spin away and force the door to yield to him. But Melkor’s hand breached the sacred ground between them that should never be crossed, and grabbed a fistful of Fëanor’s swinging hair, yanking Fëanor’s body back. The force of the momentum slammed Fëanor up against Melkor’s chest. Melkor’s free arm circled Fëanor’s waist like a shackle as his other forced Fëanor’s neck to arch and tilt his face up to Melkor like an offering to a god.

A noise of disgust wrapped itself about Fëanor’s lungs, bursting out of him as he jerked his head, trying to free himself from the touch. Melkor’s grip tightened. 

“Do not touch me!” Fëanor wrapped his fingers about the wrist of the hand caught in his hair, daring to handle him like a bridle. “Release me.”

Melkor’s breath laid itself hot as smoke across his cheek. Melkor’s fingers measured the texture of Fëanor’s hair between their tips, not cowed by the fire in Fëanor’s voice. No, Fëanor’s wrath only excited him all the more, speeding his breathing and lighting his eyes like coals.

The Vala underestimated him. Fëanor would not be controlled like a dog on a leash!

He struck the Vala in the face, the blow throwing Melkor back a step. The hand slipped from Fëanor’s hair on instinct and loosened about his waist for Fëanor to shake free of. Melkor’s fingers touched his bruised jaw, eyes snapping up to press like irons into Fëanor’s skin, but Fëanor could not be burned.

“You will regret that,” Melkor’s voice rumbled low and threatening like boulders grinding together.

Fëanor’s head lifted, high and proud. “I think not.”

“You have no idea what powers of wrath you stir.” Melkor’s eyes flashed. “Think very carefully on your next words.”

Fëanor’s teeth flashed like the threat of a wolf’s fangs in the night. He did not pause to think. No length of consideration would move him. “I need nothing from you, and I want even less.”

Melkor did not fly into a rage as Fëanor braced himself for. He licked the blood from the cut Fëanor’s fist had split in his lip, eyes hooding, thoughts veiled as he met Fëanor’s defiant gaze.

Fëanor felt the spell rush towards him, but it leapt with the speed of sound through the air, or so it seemed. He was not ready, and could do no more than jerk, every muscle in his body going stiff in preparation of sudden movement, but it was upon him and netting him before he could leap from its path. He had not been ready. Next time he would be.

Fëanor could not twist from under the hand that took his face into its valley, a strangely calloused yet soft cup of skin. He could not pry his jaw open to spit his wrath into the Vala’s face. His heart leapt, pound, pounding, in his chest. Powerless as Melkor’s thumb traced the shape of his bottom lip. He would make Melkor pay. He would make him regret daring to violate his will and body.

Melkor’s face drew close, breath hot on Fëanor’s mouth. If he kissed him Fëanor would rip out his tongue. Melkor exhaled onto his cheek, taking his time, savoring the thrill of Fëanor’s body bond to his will. He brushed the hair off Fëanor’s neck, fingering the curve of skin, and the joint where neck met collar.

Melkor’s moth slithered down to hover over Fëanor’s ear, words shaping themselves against its delicate shell. “I marked you as mine from the moment we first met. You already belong to me, and one day I will hear the words of my ownership from your lips.” 

Melkor’s mouth traveled the edge of Fëanor’s cheekbone, and then dragged down, down. Fëanor’s pulse spiked. No. Get that vile recess of deceit and death away from him! Melkor’s mouth did not close hot and consuming like a snake’s over his. He detoured from his path, and just when Fëanor began to hope the humiliation of hanging like a toy in Melkor’s arms while his mouth was devoured would not happen, Melkor darted back in and licked a slow line up Fëanor’s cheek with the curling tip of his tongue. And Fëanor was helpless to stop him.

He would not be held hostage in his own body! Before he surrendered himself to this creature’s whims, he would release this shell of flesh and rain down his wrath upon Melkor’s head with the flaming sword of his spirit. And then he would test his theories and craft for himself a new body, without the aid of any Vala’s groping, tweaking hands.

Suddenly he could move again, released from the spell like a loosed arrow. The suddenness of movement caught him as off-guard as the paralysis, and he stumbled, almost falling. Melkor laughed, enjoying the game. Fëanor hated being played with.

The hatred pounding its drumbeat in his chest blasted through any fear scrambling to take hold. If Melkor had wanted to demonstrate Fëanor’s powerlessness, his need for Melkor, then he had only succeeded in making Fëanor all the more determined to fight him and his. Fëanor would never be caught unawares again. And his people would not stand helpless as babes before the whims of gods. Just watch him, he would forge a weapon so powerful that if the Valar dared stand between him and freedom he would pick up the mantel of godslayer with a flash of white teeth, biting it down and swallowing with relish.

“Well?” Melkor drawled, mouth wearing that infuriating smirk.

But Fëanor slipped a leash about his wrath, whispering ‘later, later’ into its bucking ear. Melkor wanted his rage; he fed off it, lusted for its fire-born taste in his mouth. Fëanor would give him nothing. 

He smiled. Melkor’s confident, anticipating expression faltered. Fëanor spun on his heel and marched for the door, giving Melkor his back and his disregard with it.

“Where do you think you are going? I have not finished with you—”

Fëanor’s hand pressed into the wood of the door, feeling the web of spells crisscrossing it. He reached out with that part of himself deeper than flesh, possessing the consuming nature of its name, and let the flame inside him eat a hole through the spell-bars seeking to hold him prisoner. 

The door yielded to him, and he threw it open with a smash. Silence came from behind him, but he did not turn to look back as he strode through the door as he vowed he would stride out of any prison cell from this day forth unto the breaking of the world. No one would ever hold him hostage in his own body again. 

*

Fëanor’s hand flew over the parchment, quill scribbling at a rate that would be alarming if only it could keep up with the flying of his mind. He shoved the parchment –covered head to foot in writing—aside and grabbed a fresh sheet. He felt like a swimmer who’d been caught under a tide’s toe, crushed against the ocean’s bottom, and only now fought his way to the surface for a breath of air that rushed into his lungs like rebirth. 

He hated the city. It stifled his mind. It was worse now than ever. It had felt like ants had gotten under his skin. He could hardly find rest in the nights for all the thoughts and fears plaguing him. 

He’d had to get free of it and catch a breath of air, so he’d brought those of his people and sons willing to pack up for a few months back home, to the Fëanorions’ own settlement, and left Tirion behind. He wouldn’t bother with going back, not even to secure his place as Finwë’s firstborn and heir, but Maedhros had stayed in the city, and Maglor with him. Fëanor couldn’t leave them in that cesspit. 

But oh to just disappear into the wilds as they used to! To shake off the dust of Tirion with its network of rumors and alliances like spider webs that Fëanor always, always, got caught in because he would not censure himself. But he must not run from the troubles infecting their people. Even if he stood alone, the sole voice of reason, he would continue to rail against the cages closing in around them and shake the bars in their foundations until they cracked.

Fëanor looked up from his work at the baying of hounds. He caught the flash of white betraying Fingolfin’s daughter a moment before Celegorm and Aredhel broke through the tree line, a pack of hunting hounds chasing each other with excited barks at their horses’ hooves. Celegorm’s pale hair caught the gathering rays of Laurelin, throwing back the morning mists.

Fëanor rose and left his desk before the window to greet his returning son in the yard. Heavenly singing floated down the corridors from Maglor’s music room, and he caught the boisterous laughter of his youngest as he passed the corridor leading to the kitchens. 

Out in the yard Celegorm had swung off his mount, Rochiror’s boy dashing forward to help haul the impressive buck from the back of the saddle. The boy exclaimed over the buck’s rack, and Celegorm laughed, combing his loose hair out of his eyes with a hand still wearing blood under its nail. “I fine set, yes. They are yours. Carve your mother something pretty with them, eh?” 

The boy grinned as Celegorm ruffled his hair. “I’ll make her the finest comb in the land!” 

Celegorm flashed a grin. “Good.”

Celegorm turned at Fëanor’s approach, and greeted his father with an embrace and kiss. Celegorm smelt like he’d dressed himself in the wilderness and then bathed in the blood of his kill. “You have been missed,” Fëanor said.

Aredhel, still seated high on her horse, quiver and bow across her back, the hem of her white dress wearing blood as if she’d walked barefoot through the blood of her prey, said, “The wild lands of the North called us. They are a mistress that cannot be denied, Uncle.”

Fëanor did not bother correcting Aredhel on the overly-familiar mode of address. She would do as she liked. As long as she did not take up calling him by some ridiculous form of ‘play name’ he left the battle as not worth fighting. He would win, without question, but she knew how to inflict a headache.

Aredhel slid from her saddle with the ease of a master horsewoman and the flash of pale calves and muddy boots as her dress rode up. She hitched the strap of her quiver higher across her shoulder, and left her hair, grown wild from the weeks in the wild, to fall in tangles about her face. A leather thong held the mass of it up, knotted with leaves and twigs, but strands had snagged free.

Celegorm yanked at the tail of her ratty mess of hair, earning a swat. He grinned as Aredhel growled. “Why don’t you stay the night, and head back to Tirion after a good night’s sleep and a bath?” 

“And put up with your company another minute? There will have to be something more for me in the bargain at that price.”

He shrugged, still grinning. “Suit yourself. Don’t expect me to bend over backwards for you, Princess.”

She rolled her eyes, and said as if agreeing to a day’s labor in the kitchens, “Oh very well. Since you make such an excellent host, how can I refuse?”

“A good sight better than any you will find in Tirion! I will not make you sit like a proper lady or scold you for bad table manners!”

They continued their banter as they led their horses towards the stables, Aredhel passing off her own catch of geese to be plucked and boiled to little Geshna, one of the kitchen girls. Fëanor returned to the house, passing word that another would join them at table and for a room to be prepared. 

He had given no objection to Celegorm’s invitation. It would not be the first time Fingolfin’s daughter stayed the night after a long hunt. He had preferred her brother Fingon’s company (when Fëanor still invited that boy to his house), but he tolerated her because of her friendship with his son. She behaved herself when under his roof, so he allowed her return. 

Fëanor’s standards of behavior did not included whether her conduct was considered ‘lady like’ and proper, his measure began and ended with her treatment of his sons and his people. And on this she passed, though she held nothing but rudimentary relationships with all outside of Celegorm’s circle of friends, and played a strange dance with Curufin that might be called friendship. Some days those two liked each other’s company, others they suffered it for Celegorm’s sake.

Aredhel supped with them and spent all her time flicking olives at Celegorm as they found ever more creative ways to insult the other and carried on a serious analysis of Oromë’s many horse breeds, interplayed with a side conversation consisting mainly of boasting and betting on themselves over who was the better rider. 

Fëanor retreated back into his study and the new work calling him back like a seductress, promising the revelation of mysterious. He broke away from his work only to round the twins off to bed, ignoring their grumbles (they weren’t of age yet). He passed Maedhros and Maglor’s empty rooms on his way back. His palm pressed against the warm wood of their doors, tracing the vines carved into Maglor’s and the geometric patterns of his eldest’s. 

He paused to knock (he always remembered now) on Caranthir door, a dull throb of loneliness wormed its way under his breastbone. Caranthir was not in the mood for conversing, but he allowed Fëanor to play with his hair and ask again after his day, before looking pointedly at the door and back to the work spread out and neglected on his desk. Fëanor left him for Curufin who dropped everything to keep him company. They talked while Curufin kept an eye over Curufinwë’s bed preparations (‘You were only in that bath for two minutes, Curufinwë! Get back in there!’). Under Curufin’s care the pinch of loneliness ebbed into the warm glow of contentment, and Fëanor shut the door quietly on his son and grandson’s chambers with peace purring in his chest.

He turned down the corridor to the kitchens, seeking something hot to drink as he burned the candles low tonight. The sound of a woman’s laughter, light as silver bells, floated down the hall. The serving girls and industrious woman of the house had all retired to their own homes and beds. Fëanor did not have to guess at who owned that silvery laugh. 

He reached the door to the kitchens and heard Celegorm’s low voice, almost a growl, answering. He pushed open the door, the warm glow of a hearth’s fire seeping through its cracks. He paused at the scene revealed, fingers still wrapped about the door’s latch.

Aredhel perched on the end of a table, and Celegorm stood between she spread legs. She wore only a borrowed dressing gown and shift from a chest of old clothes Elweth had left behind, the women’s lithe figures suiting each other, though the dress Aredhel had slipped on for dinner after her bath had only brushed her ankles with the sleeve’s hems falling several inches short of her wrists. The dressing gown was a silky silver, and suited her cleaned, black hair falling against the light material about her shoulders. 

Celegorm hands rested on her naked thighs, the gown and shift shoved up around her hips. He’d cleaned himself up as well, and still worn the earrings he’d put in for dinner. Their pearly-luster caught the light like the strands of his hair, shimmering a pale gold and silver. His eyes gathered shadows and pinpoints of glittering light, lending his face the appearance of a night creature’s caught in the reflecting glow of a torch. 

Aredhel offered the curve of her neck, the challenge of a predator not the surrender of a kill. She had a little slice of smile on when Celegorm surged down into her, claiming her mouth, the line of her neck, shoving the gown off one shoulder to devour that too in feral kisses full of wildness and teeth and hunger. His hands took the width of her slender back inside them, splaying wide, curving her into the press of his body as he took her down, flat on the table, her hands grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

Fëanor shut the door quietly on their increasingly vocal passion. He could still hear Celegorm’s growled, snapping orders, and her demanding, breathless ones as he walked back down the hall.

The next day, Fëanor waited until Fingolfin’s girl had left in a swirl of white dress and limbs, silver laughter, and one last challenge flashed back over her shoulder at Celegorm, before seeking his son out. Celegorm lingered in the stables, stopping to have a conversation with each of the horses and ensure their contentment and health, and paused to play with the newest litter of kittens, holding a little ball of stripped fur in his cupped palms when Fëanor found him.

Celegorm looked up with a grin. “This one will be a fighter.” He took the little thing up to his chest to cuddle, earning happy mews from the kitten. “Already she dreams of her own territory and blood between her teeth.” He nodded at a ball of black fuzz. “Pick up that one there. His is a gentle nature. Once he is weaned I will ask him if he would take a master. Leariam’s little girl was begging for a kitten.”

Fëanor crouched down and scooped the ball of fuzz, wide-eyes, and perky ears up. The kitten began nosing his palms, whiskers trembling, trying to sniffle out treats. “Ah, this one is destined for the pampered life of a master’s pet.”

Celegorm laughed and lowered himself into the pile of hay the mother cat had made her home, not caring if straw stuck itself to the back of his fine, green tunic with its pearl-studded embroidery, or if the kittens played with his loose waves of hair like balls of yarn. Celegorm bent one knee, boot resting flat in the hay, setting himself up in a comfortable sprawl. 

Fëanor’s fingers curved the delicate bone of the kitten’s skull and boney spine, and watched his son. Celegorm was old enough to make his own choices in lover, but Fëanor couldn’t pretend excitement or a peace he did not feel over Celegorm’s choice.

“I did not know you and Aredhel were lovers.”

Celegorm looked up from the kitten’s play. His face didn’t lose its lazy smile. He plucked a blade of straw, twirling it. “It has been a few months now.”

“Hmm.” Fëanor lowered his palm and let the kitten hop free. He didn’t see a reason to dance about the heart of his interest. “What do you see in her?”

Celegorm did not take offence. He did not pick-up a defensive nature easily. He twirled the straw another moment, using it to tickle the underbelly of one of the kittens. The kitten swatted at it, chasing after it like a mouse when Celegorm made loops with it in the air. Finally he tossed the straw away, and said, “She understands parts of me no one outside our family has ever understood.” Then he shrugged. “We get on.”

“Do you seek her as a wife?”

Celegorm snorted. “No. Aredhel would never agree. She has no interest in marriage.”

“And you?” Fëanor kept his voice soft, studying the lines of Celegorm’s face. He found no tension as Celegorm dismissed, “Not at the moment. Maybe one day. I would like some children of my own, but not for years.” Then, quieter, “Aredhel would not be interested in children for years anyway. If ever.”

“But you have thought of a future with her in which there are children.”

Celegorm hummed. “Sometimes. She does not bore me.” 

Fëanor did not press to know how deep Celegorm’s feelings ran. He was pleased to hear his son was not in love with her, but the attachment was more than an idle seeking of amusement, if for no other reason than that they were friends. He would not mourn if the relationship came to nothing though, nor would he be surprised. Fingolfin’s girl was a fleet-footed huntress in love with freedom and her own way. She was not the kind of woman interested in the commitment raising a family would require. 

Content his son’s heart had not been compromised by a girl who would eat it and lick its juices off her lips as she disappeared into the horizon, Fëanor settled into a vein of lighter conversation with his son. Celegorm was eager to share all the finest moments of his weeks hunting in the wild, and they passed a pleasant morning in each other’s company.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you recognize it, it comes from the Silmarillion. There are some direct quotes in this chapter, only modified into modern English.
> 
> *indicates writing inspired by Martin Luther King Jr.’s words.

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 21

These days Finarfin avoided the palace like a light-shy night-crawler, so Fingolfin went calling at his brother’s house. A servant led him through to the reception room. Fingolfin took a seat in one of the airy chairs of Telerin influence with its scrolled back of dark wood set against the pastel fabrics dominating the room. The terrace doors had been left open, and a breeze blew in, carrying the scent of the garden beyond and sending the sheer curtains fluttering. 

The tension in Fingolfin’s back loosened, and he found himself taking in deep, calming breaths as he listened to the gentle chime of the hanging shells and glass beads spinning in the breeze.

“Fingolfin, welcome.” 

Fingolfin turned at his brother’s greeting and rose as Finarfin approached with a smile. Finarfin’s golden curls hung loose about his shoulders but for two braids holding their weight back from his face. He wore robes of a Telerin style, the silky fabric a creamy blue with billowing sleeves that slipped back from his wrists and forearms as he raised his hands to settle them on Fingolfin’s shoulders and lean in for a kiss on the cheek. 

“You have been busy. I have not had the pleasure of your company for some months.”

Fingolfin raised a brow, drawing back from his own kiss. “You knew where to find me if you had cared to see me.”

Finarfin’s mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile. “And you knew where to find me.”

“Fair enough.” Fingolfin settled in his chair again, leaning back and crossing one ankle over his knee. The chair’s low back did not lend itself to Fingolfin’s idea of comfort. 

Finarfin took the couch across from him, and gestured to the glass wine pitcher awaiting their pleasure. Finarfin’s wrist twisted with elegance and control through the gesture, perfect pose to match the perfectly controlled face the Noldor idealized.

“Please,” Fingolfin inclined his head.

Finarfin lifted the wine and poured two glasses. Even the wine pitcher was of Telerin design; its neck twisted and folded like a water lily. “So, what brings you to my home? Or were you just missing me?” Finarfin smiled over the lip of his wine glass. 

The smile was nothing like one of Fëanor’s smiles. It was genuine but serene, all passion mastered, bent to the will of the smile’s wearer. The mark of a true master of the art: one who controlled all that passion the Noldor had been born with, conquering it. 

Something twisted in Fingolfin’s gut as he watched Finarfin demonstrate his impressive strength of will (as Finarfin ever did, never slipping for even a moment, unlike Fingolfin). It was almost a sickness, a feeling of wrongness. Fingolfin brushed it away, firming his grip on his own self-control. 

Control was all he had, and all that stood between him and handing everything he was over to Fëanor’s uncaring hands with a single look. Control was one of the only things he did better than Fëanor. What would Fingolfin have left if he lost his control and all his cards in the game with it? 

He was not Fëanor and could never be. He’d learned that long ago. He could only be himself; and contemptible as Fëanor found him, Fingolfin had proved himself better than Fëanor in _something_. He enjoyed the game, found fulfillment in executing his duties of governance, and purpose when something he’d done enriched his people’s futures and made their lives even that little bit easier. If Fëanor sneered at that, than he didn’t understand who Fingolfin was at all. He never had.

“Can I not miss you and come on business as well?” Fingolfin sliced his brother a smile.

Finarfin’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, but now I will be tempted to doubt which moved you the more.”

Fingolfin laughed lightly, and they passed through the pleasantries, inquiring on how the other’s children and wife got on, each glowing with their children’s accomplishment and complaining over the many headaches their children had inflicted upon them over this and that, love dripping from every word.

A lure dropped into their conversation as they sat, at ease. Into this moment Fingolfin stepped –not softly, this was his brother. “I assume –from your abrupt removal of yourself from court—that the rumors of Fëanor’s recent maneuverings have reached your ears.”

Finarfin slid him a glance over the rim of his wine glass. “Maneuverings and Fëanor should not be used in the same sentence.” 

Fingolfin’s mouth twitched, “Would ‘charging’ be better suited?”

Finarfin set his wine aside and folded his hands. “Perhaps. But he has done an impressive job of keeping his cards close to his chest this time as all there have been are rumors –and yes, I have heard them and want no part.”

Fingolfin’s mouth lost its smile. “It does not sound like he is asking you if you want to be involved. You are. We need to take steps, together, to ensure Fëanor does not succeed.” Fingolfin leaned forward. “I have already consolidated my core supporters, but we need to build a greater base of power in anticipation of the hour Fëanor strikes and makes his move to drive us out of the city like petty thieves.”

Finarfin held up his hands, sitting back as if to physically separate himself from Fingolfin’s plans. “Oh no, do not play that game with _me_ , Brother. Do not pretend you have not been stirring things up as well. You have just admitted as much: ‘power base’ ‘supporters.’ Fëanor will have been watching your ever counter move. You have done nothing but feed into his paranoia, and _you know it_.”

Fingolfin’s mouth set. “Do not expect me to sit by and not defend myself. I will not be driven from my city and my father’s side like a _criminal_.”

“I do not expect any different. Your pride would not allow you to do anything less when you heard Fëanor wanted you ousted from the city. You just had to hit back. And your thirst to _win_ made it inevitable you would start forging your own swords. That competitive side of yours will be your downfall one day if you are not careful. If I have heard rumors of this madness then you can be sure Fëanor has as well.”

Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed. “What was I supposed to do when I heard Fëanor was forging weapons to have me, and _you_ , driven from the city?”

Finarfin met Fingolfin’s eyes with an infuriating tranquility. Fingolfin clenched his teeth and struggled to keep his face set in an expression of stately pride. “You should have ignored it like I do and will continue to do. You know Fëanor. He is paranoid and as possessive of Father’s love as he is of those sons of his. Any hint, even a shadow, that Father would choose us over him would send Fëanor into a frenzy, and you know it, Fingolfin.”

Fingolfin uncrossed his legs, dropping his boot to the floor. “What I know is that this crept up from nowhere. I have done nothing I had not been doing for years; nothing to plant the seeds of these rumors. The only explanation for Fëanor’s extreme behavior is that he has grown fey. I will do whatever I must to protect myself, my family, and our people from any threat.”

Finarfin gave Fingolfin a look, clearly not believing a word of it. “Have you _really_ done nothing? Do not play coy with me, Fingolfin. I do not doubt Fëanor would have been the provoker, but if you lost your temper with him and said ill-thought-out words they could have well been the seed.”

Fingolfin rose to his feet, teeth grinding. How dare Finarfin blame this on _him_. Fingolfin was not the one who’d started amassing weapons to drive his brother away by _force_. He had only answered the threat. He would not leave himself defenseless, and how dare Finarfin criticize Fingolfin for defending himself? From their father he would expect this (Finwë always took Fëanor’s side) but not Finarfin. 

“I did _nothing_. I had not even spoken more than a word to him in months before the first rumors flew.”

Finarfin caned his neck back, not rising to meet Fingolfin on his feet. Fëanor would have in a heartbeat. “Perhaps it was something you said to another. It need not have been said to Fëanor’s face for the whisper of your words to reach his ears. This city is ripe with rumors.”

“I will not be blamed for Fëanor’s irrational and _dangerous_ behavior. Even if I did say something, that does not excuse the way Fëanor has reacted—”

“So your own response you consider rational though it is based on nothing but rumors, but Fëanor’s you have labeled irrational by a similar measuring stick though both of you responded to rumors with the preludes to _war_?”

“Enough!” Fingolfin’s hand sliced through the air, losing the grip on his temper at last. “Will you stand with me or not?”

Finarfin sighed, rising to his feet. Fingolfin knew the moment his brother’s eyes met his with sadness that Finarfin would no more stand with him than their father would. He was alone. “I will be here whenever you need an ear you can trust to keep your secrets. But as for entangling myself in the webs of rumors, I will have no part.”

“Very well.” Fingolfin’s shoulders braced straight and proud. “Forgive me for wasting your time with rumors.” His heel spun and he strode for the door.

“I will always be here to listen, Brother.” Fingolfin did not turn back at Finarfin’s paltry offer when what Fingolfin _needed_ was his brother’s support. 

Fingolfin’s head had not cooled by the time he reached the palace and encountered Maedhros in the corridors. No one else was around, so Fingolfin’s feet took him to his nephew’s side. 

Maedhros greeted him with a nod. “Fingolfin.”

“Maedhros.” 

The lines of stress pressed around Maedhros’ eyes, and he did not smile. Fëanor had done his son no favors when he tossed aside all caution and brought down the Valar’s scrutiny with his boycott against them. Fëanor would not heed Maedhros’ council, or anyone’s, to walk more softly, and Maedhros, being the good son he was, worried for his father and bore the burden of smoothing feathers as best as he could after his father blew through like a wildfire.

Fingolfin asked on an impulse, just biting back the note of desperation, “How has your father’s mood fared of late?”

Maedhros’ eyes held Fingolfin’s for a long, tense moment that unraveled to shreds between them. “You are asking me to repot to you of my father’s activities?”

Fingolfin’s hand came up between them, taking hold of Maedhros’ sleeve. A misunderstand now could be disastrous. “That is not how I meant my words.”

Maedhros’ brows tilted up, giving him a haughty look, stunningly beautiful and untouchable. “Forgive me,” Maedhros snatched his sleeve away from Fingolfin’s grasp. “But that is exactly what is sounded like. You overreach yourself if you believe I, Fëanor’s firstborn and heir, would ever _inform_ on him to _anyone_. If you will excuse me, I think we are done here.” 

Maedhros brushed passed Fingolfin with one last narrow-eyed glance sliced down the sharp line of his cheekbone.

Well, that had gone spectacularly badly. Fingolfin had not been able to call Maedhros an ally since the rumors started thickening the air, and the line in the sand was drawn between Fëanor’s followers and the Noldor alarmed by the whispers of _rebellion_. He would never have bet even a copper piece on the likelihood of Maedhros choosing any side but his father’s, but Fingolfin could admit his words had been poorly crafted and badly timed.

Fingolfin sighed, raking a hand through his hair. Finarfin could blame him for listening to the rumors if he liked, but Fingolfin knew in his heart they were true. Fëanor loathed him. If Fëanor believed Fingolfin was trying to usurp his place not only of his birthright as heir but in their father’s heart as well, what shred of fondness, what horded memory of a childhood in which Fëanor had never wanted him around to begin with would stay Fëanor’s hand now? There was none.

*

Fëanor’s hands rested in their work to watch Curufin guide Curufinwë through the last steps of Curufinwë’s first sword forging. The blade had turned out beautifully –Curufinwë was tremendously talented. 

Maglor paused in his work on the forge’s other side. Fëanor had coaxed Maglor away from his music to lend a hand in the forge. Maglor possessed a deft hand with gems, turning out exquisite work on the swords’ hilts and scabbards. And when Maglor’s voice picked up the forge songs the metal glowed with Power only Fëanor’s forging songs could surpass. Maglor didn’t have Curufin’s still in metal work, or Curufin’s passion for the craft which lent itself to innovation, but his sons made a fine team between them. 

Curufin’s eyes ran critically over Curufinwë’s final workmanship, picking up the sword and turning it this way and that in the light while Curufinwë waited with bated breath for his father’s judgment. 

Curufin lowered the sword and met his son’s eyes. “Well done.” 

Curufinwë’s face lit up like he’d been handed the world. Curufin’s praise came rare and dearly bought, but it was worth its weight in gold for it was never given without complete sincerity.

Fëanor smiled as he came to join his son and grandson, holding out a hand for Curufinwë’s first sword. Two sets of smoke-grey eyes turned to him. Curufin looked as young as his son in that moment, too young to have a son of twelve years. But Fëanor could not regret giving his blessing to Curufin’s disastrous marriage even though it marched pain into Curufin and Caranthir’s eyes, for Curufinwë would not exist without it.

Fëanor finished his inspection with a wide smile for his grandson. “Extraordinary.” 

Curufinwë took his sword back with shy hands, but he grinned so wide his cheeks would start aching in a moment. Fëanor settled a hand on his grandson’s shoulder, squeezing.

His eyes turned to Curufin at his side. He lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles against his son’s smooth jaw. “You have taught him well.” 

Curufin’s mouth lifted in a reserved smile (Curufin did not smile in that innocent, adoring way he once had anymore), but Fëanor could read the pleasure in his son’s eyes. Curufin was as hungry for his father’s love as ever, and though Fëanor had given him a hundred-thousand affirmations of that love in word, touch, and action, Curufin needed just one more, always. Fëanor gave it to him with joy. Curufin’s need for him comforted all the deep places inside him scorched with fears when his young arms clung to his father as if he would fold into nothing if his father ever left him (like Mother had).

“Time for a rest and a meal, I think.” Fëanor settled a hand on Curufin and Curufinwë’s shoulders, and cast a glance at Maglor. 

Maglor waved them on. “In a moment,” he said, plunging back into his work.

“Do not linger overlong. We would have your company,” Fëanor called as he steered his boys out of the forge. He brought them into the light of Laurelin at her peek hour. Some of his people were already mingling about the tables left out to the open sky, and the long serving tables groaned with the weight of many dishes waiting to fill the laborers’ bellies.

“Curufinwë, fetch your uncle Caranthir, and see if Amras is in the painters’ workshop.”

“Amrod dragged Amras hawking with him and Celegorm this morning,” Curufin said.

“Just your uncle Caranthir then. He should be in his workshop.”

Curufinwë ran off to fetch his uncle, and Fëanor and Curufin made their way to the serving tables. They didn’t have to wait before serving themselves as the craftsmen and women wandering out of their forges, workshops, and studios for the noonday meal were only a trickle as yet.

Fëanor selected a table and swung his leg over the bench, Curufin coming down beside him. He pulled the red handkerchief off his brow, shaking his hair out, before knotting it at the base of his nape. Heads covered in a variety of colors dotted the tables around them. 

Curufin did not favor a handkerchief, and kept his hair pulled back in a high tail. Fëanor wore his hair to fit his mood for the day, sometimes bound in a lofty fist, other times a simple handkerchief. 

Curufin picked up his cutlery and began dicing his meat with the elegance of movement that would have suited a courtly dinner perfectly. Curufin liked his perfection. Fëanor smiled as he watched his son’s precise movements out of the corner of his eye.

“Is that Maedhros?”

Fëanor’s eyes swung to the road leading from the Fëanorions’ forges back up Mount Túna to the city. 

He needed to keep an eye on the political situation with the way conspiracies and rumors were washing back and forth like a tide. Well, Maedhros kept an eye on it for him. Fëanor didn’t have the patience for courtlife, too many irritating people who didn’t _listen_. 

Fëanor had resigned himself to permanent residency in the city. He wouldn’t send Maedhros off alone into the lion’s den. The idea of any of his sons being far from home in times like these sent his hands reaching out, seeking Curufin’s under the table, needing to touch and confirm. Curufin squeezed his hand back. 

Maedhros spied them at the meal tables and aimed for them, pausing to return the greetings of their people who called out to him –and there were many for their beloved prince. He’d come straight from court judging by the fineness of his forest-green tunic, sown with cut, butter-yellow tourmaline and delicate stitching in gold thread about the neckline, and the handsomeness of his hair braided back from his face. 

Maedhros’ let his breath out in a sigh as he took the bench opposite his father and brother, but his practiced smile didn’t slip an inch. They were not alone, and Maedhros did not allow himself the openness he once had even among their people.

“What news, my son?” Fëanor rested his fork and knife along the line of his plate, giving his eldest his undivided attention.

Maedhros’ smile twisted wry. “The usual. Rumors and more rumors. To track them back to their roots and discover their authenticity, ah, now that is the challenge.”

“What has Fingolfin been up to?”

“According to the rumors?” Maedhros lifted a brow, mouth turning up in amusement.

Fëanor laughed softly. “If that is all the warning we can reap before his strike, then yes, we must put our ear to the rumor mill.”

“Father,” Maedhros’ hand slid across the table to touch the back of Fëanor’s. “I hold with what I have been telling you since these rumors began to spread: they are not but vicious lies. I feel it in my heart. I know Fingolfin—”

Fëanor’s hand snapped about, capturing the tips of his son’s fingers. “And I have known him longer. He is capable of exactly suck a slick, underhanded game as this. He was undermining my place at my father’s side when you were nothing but a baby, Maedhros. Trust me, I know him well.”

Maedhros’ eyes searched Fëanor’s. “Do you, Father, do you? Or do you know the face he has shown you?”

Fëanor’s hand tightened about his son’s fingers. “Do not let him fool you with his saintly act. He seeks my birthright and me cast out of my father’s heart –even as his mother dose.”

Maedhros’ mouth turned down, hand withdrawing from Fëanor’s. “I see you will not be swayed.”

Fëanor answered that with a look, but held back harder words. He hated to hear Fingolfin still spoken of with such favor from Maedhros’ mouth, but he had no right to remind Maedhros that Fingolfin was no friend, not after Maedhros cut the strings of what Maedhros believed an honest friendship for Fëanor’s sake. 

Maedhros straightened his shoulders. “He is not united with us in our cause, and so he is no ally, but I would council you that he is not the enemy you would believe him.”

No, Fingolfin was no ally. He was a hypocrite. Maedhros had reported to Fëanor that Fingolfin held no love for the Valar, in fact disapproved of any involvement in the Noldor’s business from that quarter, down to the Valar’s laws the Noldor had yet to throw off the yoke of. Yet Fingolfin held his silence, refusing to stand up when his people needed him to speak up more than they’d ever needed their leaders to stand with decisiveness and bold words in all their history. 

It was everything Fëanor despised about the person his brother had become. Fingolfin didn’t choose to do the right thing. He chose to so what was best for his schemes, his plots and ambitions that gorged themselves on the feast of slicked palms and promises passed around in back rooms. Fëanor found Fingolfin’s silence contemptible.

“What of the Aftercomers?” Fëanor swung the conversation away from the marshy ground of Fingolfin. “I do not expect the Valar to break their silence on the secrets they have clouded the coming of these Secondborn in, but has my father yet addressed the issue, even in the Council of Lords?”

“The king holds his silence in this as in all matters regarding the rumors of the Valar’s deceptions.”

Fëanor’s hand balled into a fist. Their people _needed_ their leaders to stand up and either calm the tide of fear, boiling anger, and suspicious raging through the city and counter the Valar’s lies and assure the Noldor their voices were being heard, by the king and his court at the least, or stand up and lead their people in the demand for their rights and freedom from the Valar. Yet his father did nothing, biding his silence.

The rumors of the Aftercomers had not been spreading long, but they were more oil on the fire of the Noldor’s discontent, perhaps the match that lit the bonfire of their revolution. The Valar, it was whispered, had known all along of the coming Secondborn and lured the Elves away from their inheritance, as the Firstborn sons of Ilúvatar, to Valinor in order to make room for the Aftercomers. All of Middle-earth was the birthright of the Elves, as the Firstborn. It had been given into their safe-keeping, but the Valar’s lies had tricked them into abandoning their birthright into the hands of lesser Children who would ruin Arda with their greedy and destructive natures.

Fëanor’s eyes swung back to the circle of forges, each one the birthplace of the weapons he had ordered the forging of. He didn’t intend to linger in these oppressive lands much longer. The Noldor had an inheritance to reclaim and wide, open lands to rule without the restrictions of the Valar upon their backs, bending them low. Dangers awaited them in Endor, so all the old tales told, and he would have his people prepared to survive. 

He had labored for change all his life, but so little had been achieved, and for every step the Noldor took down the path to greatness, more veils were pulled back and chains they had not even known bound them were revealed. He saw now that their freedom would never be voluntarily given to them by their oppressor, they must demand it.*

But no dream-walker was he, no man so puffed full of his own ideals he could not see reality. He forged swords for more than the star-lit lands. The possibility that kept him awake at night planning for, and yes, fearing (for he was not a fool), was that the Valar would try to stop the Noldor’s leaving. 

And yet, though Fëanor had perfected the art of sword-making and armed his people with steel, woven deep with spells, he had no weapon to slay gods. But he would find a way. He had never bowed to the word impossible, and would not begin now.

*

Fingon had gone hunting. On a day like today Fingolfin felt his eldest’s missing presence at his side like the absence of golden light sliding between his ribs. Fingon was his steady one. It was Fingon he could always count on to take one look into his face and know he needed him. Fingon would drop everything to stay with him until his skin no longer felt too stretched and bulky. Some days Fingolfin did not possess the strength of stone or the brightness of princes, but it was all right because Fingon was there.

Fingolfin sighed, wishing he could exhale this melancholy out of him. It had been a bad day. Finarfin, that mess with Maedhros, yet another lord coming in confidence about the newest rumor running rampant through the city, and Finwë turning a blind eye to all, as if by denying the growing unrest and suspicious eyes of their people he could make it all go away.

Fingolfin would have found Turgon and spent the evening with his son’s little family, distracting himself with his new granddaughter and how happy Turgon was with his lot in life, but Turgon had taken his wife and daughter to Alqualondë to escape the city’s coiling atmosphere.

Fingolfin sought his daughter’s chambers without much hope of receiving what he longed for inside. Aredhel, his dear, wild girl, was always his child first, rarely his friend.

He knocked on her door but received no answer. He cracked the door open wide enough to stick his head through. She was there. He knew because she’d pulled all the curtains closed, shutting out the light. “Aredhel?” 

He entered fully when he received no answer, guilt twisting in his chest. There he’d been moping over his own troubles when one of her dark moods had swallowed her and he’d not even known.

He found her in bed, the covers pulled over her head, nothing more than a curled lump. He sank into the bed beside her and found the point of her shoulder. He said nothing for a long moment. He stroked her back, the sleek black of her hair pooling out from under the bedspread. She did not shake him off or order him away. He smoothed the hair back from the pale slice of her brow peeking up, and bent to press a kiss there.

“Aredhel, would you like to eat dinner with me? I will have the cooks prepare your favorites.” He never failed to feel helpless in the face of this inner-darkness she battled. Everything he’d learned had been learned through mistakes. The healers were no help at all. 

He wished Fingon were here. Listening to her brother’s fingers play across a harp’s strings soothed her. Sometimes if he could just get her out of this dark room and back amongst people the darkness would loosen its grip.

“I’m not hungry,” came her muffled reply. “Just leave me be.”

Fingolfin stroked her hair another moment, then said, “The Mingling approaches, but you could go out for an evening ride yet. Would you like that? I could send a message to see if Celegorm is free.” And didn’t that come up his throat like a peach pit. He had done nothing but discourage their affair since word of it reached him, not from his daughter’s mouth, but the malicious rumor mill. 

He feared for her. As the rumors of her affair with Celegorm spread, so too did the criticism. Aredhel had never been popular with the women of court, and received much censure behind her back, but she had begun to receive it to her face now in lips curled and shoulders turned pointedly away for _daring_ to flaunt the Valar’s laws and bed her cousin. Aredhel tossed her head and rolled her eyes, declaring those cliffs of shoulders no loss to her, and Fingolfin had never felt prouder of his wild, proud girl. But he feared the rejection would eat away at her like the slow erosion of water over stone.

But this fear paled against the threat of banishment that hung over her head. A woman who slept with men outside the bonds of matrimony risked a Shaming or a sentence among Vairë’s handmaidens, but only if her father or husband allowed it as the final authority over her life. Aredhel would suffer such a fate only when every limb from Fingolfin’s body had been chopped off. But the Valar strictly forbid incest in their laws, and did not hesitate to enforce them. Only Aredhel status yet saved her. 

Any one of those judging eyes could force the issue before the Valar, and while Fingolfin would claw against it until his fingers fell off, stand between any hands coming to drag Aredhel out into the streets, pack up and exile himself with his daughter, or swallow his pride and throw his lot in with Fëanor and add his voice in a scream against the Valar, if the Valar threw their weight behind their laws and used force to implement them Fingolfin was not delusional enough to believe he could stop them from doing exactly as they wished. 

The reason he would not stand in the Great Square before their people and rail agaisnt the Valar as Fëanor did was because he did not believe they could win sovereignty by open-rebellion. Only through the careful steps of a gradual separation, a wiggle here, a wiggle there, would they one day regain agency.

Aredhel made a rude noise and threw back the bedcover. She’d climbed in fully clothed, minus only her boots. “Suddenly not suffering heart-shock that I’m sleeping with my Fëanorion cousin?”

“I worry for you.” And, as if the threat of the Valar punishing her was not worry enough, his heart was also deeply disquieted by how vicious the tides of her moods had taken to tossing her about of late. How often had he found her lying here in the dark, or heard her laughing in that too loud octave that knifed through his heart because he heard pain at its root, since her affair with Celegorm began? 

Celegorm did not make her happy. She had grown profoundly _unhappy_ over these last months. It was like some great pendulum that had once swung a slow path through her mind had been thrust into an erratic and perilous acceleration, and Fingolfin was on a raft caught in an ocean gall, arms outstretched, but the waves snatched her away, pulling her further and further from his grasp.

She snorted, and sat up. “I don’t want your coddling. And I don’t need you to look after my _reputation_. I’ll have sex with whoever pleases me, and stuff the rest.” She grabbed her boots and shoved them on.

“Aredhel, it is not your reputation that concerns me, but you. I—”

“Oh, just leave it already.” She stood, shaking out her white skirts and adjusting her bodice. She gathered her thick hair and threw it back over her shoulder blades. Then she sliced him the look of a cat, “If you keep harping on about Celegorm, I’m going to compose a song about what his cock feels like when I ride him.”

Fingolfin bit down on the flash of anger, closed his eyes, and counted to ten in his head. She only said it to get a rise out of him. He rose from the bed. “Are you feeling like dinner?” 

She jerked her head in the negative. “I’m going for a ride. And a fuck.” She tilted her chin up at him, daring him to deny her.

Fingolfin gritted his teeth. He nodded, but held his silence, knowing the kind of response wishing her safety would receive. He must count his blessings. She was no longer pinned to the bed with the weight of her darkness, even if she’d taken the dark storm inside and molded it into a recklessly clavier attitude and limbs itching to be away.

He caught her wrist as she strode past him, stilling her long enough to press a kiss into her brow. “I love you.”

Her breath came out in a long exhale, like the world had dug itself inside her breast. She lingered against his shoulder a moment, surprising and pleasing him. She dropped her forehead into his shoulder like an embrace, brief, but sweet, before straightening and standing tall and proud as a silver beech tree. “Thank you for…” She gestured back at the bed. “Your love is dear to me.” Her eyes picked his up. “But I need you to stop pushing me.”

Fingolfin frowned, “You mean about Celegorm?”

She waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t care about that. I’ll keep sleeping with him no matter what you say until I grow bored of him. I meant _everything_ ,” she made an inadequate gesture. “You expect me to be someone I’m not. ”

“No,” he caught her hand. “It is only that it hurts me to see you suffering. Forgive a father his fears and worries.”

Aredhel freed her hand from his, mouth compressing. “I know what it is I felt. You want me to be a daughter who stays at home, dinning with her parents, entertaining them with songs, doting on them until I find a husband and children to pour my life into until they have eclipsed and consumed every corner of me.”

Fingolfin shook his head in bewilderment. When— _why_ would she believe these desires were harbored in his heart when he’d never once entertained them? “I do not know what I have said or done to make you believe this of me, but it is not true. I would _never_ want you to be someone you are not. And if I ever gave that impression, then I apologize. It was never my intent to change you.”

She scoffed, and made to push passed him. “It is growing late—”

Fingolfin snatched her fleeing body, and crushed her against his chest. She held herself stiff, not relaxing into his arms. “I love you and want you to be happy. Forgive me my blunderings. Sometimes I feel so…powerless.”

She sighed, the sound not one of contentment but tolerance, and slipped her arms loosely about his waist, letting him hold her, his stag-hearted, forest-blooded girl.

She untangled herself. “I must go, the light wanes.” She started for the door. “We will most likely camp for the night, so do not expect me for the morning meal.” She paused at the door, hand on the latch. She did not look back, but her whispered words carried. “Thank you, Father.” Then she was gone, swift as a deer, silent as the hunter.

Fingolfin shut his daughter’s door softly behind him. He stood for a moment in the empty corridor, ears straining in the silence. There was no laughter in this wing of the palace, no pitter-patter of childish feet, no enraged bellows of one or the other of his children playing a prank on a sibling, no dark hair flying behind a little body with scraped knees and pointy elbows as they came running towards their daddy with grins streaking like falling stars across their faces.

His children were all grown up, and they offered him now something their childhood selves could not: companionship. But Fingolfin would be lying to say he didn’t miss the life that once teamed in his family’s wing.

He squared his shoulders and shoved the pitying thoughts aside. Idril would be tottering around on chubby legs in a year. Aredhel may never have children, and would never settle down into the traditional role of a wife, but he did not want her to. That would be to ask her to be someone she was not. 

Fingon may have sons and daughters one day. Fingolfin’s heart tore over the thought. He had hoped to call Maedhros a son one day, but Fingon’s heart had never turned to him. Fingolfin cherished the man his son had grown into, one that might one day have children of his own, but he mourned for a love that would have shaken the stars but now would never be more than half realized.

A restlessness overtook him, the loneliness gnawing its way back in, and his feet drove him out of the empty rooms. He searched for no comfort in the palace corridors bustling with servants, courtiers, and those come on business or with petitions, and he found none. 

He had a half-formed notion of finding an abandoned garden to still his mind within, but his wandering feet took him passed the locked (forbidden) doors of the palace wing dedicated to Míriel like a forgotten shrine. The doors were kept closed against any unworthy fingers and eyes, and they had remained bared for so many years Fingolfin’s eyes swept over them without pause or thought. Today would have been like any other but for an abnormality that snagged his eye. One of the door’s stood open a crack. 

His feet jerked to a stop, pulse leaping like a dancer in his throat. Was it…? If it was _him_ Fingolfin should not dare to invade upon the sanctuary of the Mother, but he could not help himself. He found his feet already approaching, hand reaching and pushing the door wider as the rational part of his brain shouted to go back, go back! But Fëanor could be somewhere on this door’s other side. And it wouldn’t be the Fëanor of a Council of Lords or a speech in the Great Square or come shooting like a fiery-star from Finwë’s presence. It would a Fëanor alone. Perhaps...perhaps even vulnerable in a way that brought him within reaching distance. 

The distance for reasoning, Fingolfin tried to tell himself. He was only seeking Fëanor out because he wanted to reason with him about his increasingly eradiate and threatening actions. That was all. It was not as if anything else could happen in such a moment. It was not as if Fingolfin _wanted_ something else to happen. His pulse only felt like lightning because Fëanor was unpredictable.

Fingolfin passed dusty room after dusty room, the smell of neglect and the earthy scent of rot setting in strong. Covers had been thrown over the furnishings, and drapes over the exquisite tapestries, but the wooden floors had not been re-varnished in what might be a century, maybe more. Light came filtered and thin through the curtains pulled over widows to keep the fading power of light out. This smallest wing of the palace had the look of a tomb, and the great works of Míriel’s Serindë’s hands wore shrouds like a corpse. 

It struck Fingolfin as a terrible waste. The first queen of the Noldor had been one of the greatest craftsman of their people, but her masterpieces were as ignored as her preferred name: Míriel Þerindë. 

Fingolfin found himself hoping he would not find Fëanor in this old relic of a wing to witness just how far his mother had been forgotten. But then he saw him, back turned, hair a dark cloud held back with silver clasps that seemed bright as stars in a night sky. He stood before a peeling portrait of his parents, the fingers of Finwë’s hands on Míriel’s shoulder faded, the silver of her hair and exquisitely beautiful face flaking off.

Emotion caught in Fingolfin’s throat, making it difficult to swallow. He would have spared Fëanor this sight. But then Fëanor turned and it wasn’t Fëanor at all.

Maglor blinked at him, before he recovered from his surprise and granted Fingolfin an incline of his proud head. “I did not think anyone came here from the state of things,” Malgor’s hand swept about the room, taking in the murky light and bare floorboards in a room housing only shrouded tapestries and the damaged portrait.

“The door was ajar.” Fingolfin walked closer, a war of relief and disappointment waging in his chest.

“Hmm,” Maglor turned back to the portrait of his grandparents. “Finwë crafted quite the convenient burial place for my grandmother, don’t you think?”

Fingolfin must pick his words with care as a son of Indis. “It is a shame her peerless art should be hidden away like this and left to the moths and slow decay. By rights every noble should be fighting over a chance to house even one inch of her work in their home.”

Maglor laughed, startling Fingolfin. “Oh no, my father would never have allowed that!”

Fingolfin jaw clenched. “So it is better it only ever be enjoyed by insects then the eyes of the ‘unworthy?’”

Maglor gave him a surprised look. “You mistake my meaning. I meant my father never would have allowed Míriel’s work to decay here in this tomb. He fetched it away long ago. If you were ever to come calling at our home you would finding Míriel’s tapestries adorning every room like a king’s crown, and clothing her hands crafted into pieces of beauty in each of her grandson’s wardrobes.”

“I see. Forgive me my assumption.”

Maglor waved the apology off. “The drapes lend themselves to misunderstanding,” he gestured at the drapes covering the places on the walls once housing his grandmother’s work.

The silence of acquaintances fell between them, reinforced by a city going mad outside these doors and two queens rising like mammoth statues from the mist, drawing the lines of ancestry with their giant fingers in the sand. Míriel and Indis’ children no longer passed pretty words in the corridors unless a friendship stronger than blood reached back back to a time before rumors of weapons and usurpers went up between them like a glass wall.

But glass could not stop eyes from looking, and Maglor looked so very like his father. Fingolfin’s gaze lingered on the shape of a jaw, the delicate shell of an ear revealed where the hair pinned back, and the long, thick curl of lashes about glimmering silver. His eyes shifted away when he caught Maglor looking back, but the moment he felt that gaze returning to the portrait, he found the scroll of that mouth. 

Silver eyes flickered over again, catching him in the act. Fingolfin cleared his throat and found the portrait’s frame of vital interest.

Maglor hummed a single note, the sound like the first pluck of a harp string. Then he turned away from the portrait and began a slow turn about the room, stride easy and confident. He paused to brush the curtains back from the window’s glass, and let the light stream in and warm the creaking floorboards before moving on. 

He stopped at the archway in the far wall leading to the next room, and slanted a look back at Fingolfin over the curve of his shoulder that wound itself in Fingolfin’s belly. “I think I have discovered what Finwë did with his old marriage bed.” He beckoned Fingolfin with a curl of fingertips, and a smile that drew the breath from Fingolfin’s lungs.

Maglor propped his elbow on the frame of the archway, hand sliding into the wealth of his hair and accentuating the curve of his ass. He was alluringly beautiful, and Fingolfin’s feet drew him closer to the flame. 

As he came to stand abreast in the archway, Maglor shifted his long, lean body to lean his shoulder fully into the frame, and Fingolfin wished Maglor was naked so he could watch the way his muscles would ripple under his skin. But he must not touch. He could steal a hundred looks, but never touch.

Maglor spread his hand like he offered the room to Fingolfin. “Well, care to investigate?”

Fingolfin grasped the safe-wrist of distance, and entered the room, leaving Maglor lounging in the archway. He went to the window and threw the curtains open, letting in a gush of golden light and stirring up a spiral of dust motes that hung, suspended, in midair. 

Maglor said, as Fingolfin made his way to the bed a protective sheet had been thrown over, “That might be the very bed my father was conceived on.” 

Fingolfin threw him a sharp glance. Maglor smirked, hip leaning into the frame like the curves of a lover. He was beautiful and he knew it.

Fingolfin did not expect anything but a moth-eaten bedspring under the sheet. Too many decades had passed for dust to be the worst of its fears. But when he pulled the sheet back a bed in perfect condition, right down to the fullness of its bedcover, was revealed.

Maglor made a little sound. “A clever spell there.”

Fingolfin hummed, running fingers over the sheet. He discovered the Elven-hair threaded in every tenth strand, and could feel the pulse of the Spell of Preservation sung into its binding. He let the sheet drop to the floor.

“Shall we try it out for size?” Fingolfin’s head snapped around. Maglor arched a brow back. “Well? You have wanted me for ages, now is your chance.”

A denial sat on his tongue, curling there, before it slipped back down his throat. He wanted Maglor so badly his sex had been stiff with the anticipation of it since the moment he saw him standing there, hair a cloud of darkness with starlight threaded inside. Only he’d been under the impression his hunger had been stirred by the father, yet the son’s revelation had not diminished his arousal.

But he must not cross this line. He must not touch and take. Not when he looked into silver eyes and saw another pair looking out.

He broke their locked gazes, and strode purposefully towards the archway and the door behind. If he did not leave now he never would. But Maglor moved his body to block Fingolfin’s escape. Fingolfin was caught inside those eyes again, so close. The shadows played with the bones in Malgor’s face. It seemed impossible for Fingolfin to find even more of Fëanor in the son’s face, but it was there waiting for him in the way Maglor’s mouth tipped up, soft and tempting and full of itself. 

Maglor closed that last step until they breathed the other in. The scent of a forge, of fire, sent Fingolfin’s breath into orbit. “You smell like a forge.”

Malgor’s laugh fell like a song between them, luring Fingolfin, urging him closer, closer. Malgor’s head tilted to the side, aligning their mouths with only inches apart, so close Fingolfin could feel the heat of his breath. “My father called on my expertise earlier. If the smell offends you then you are sorely out of luck.”

“No,” Fingolfin’s voice was no more than a breath. “It does not.” He should pull away, pull away, pull away—

“You _want_ me.” Maglor’s voice washed over Fingolfin, stroking him like talented fingers. He felt the edges of Maglor’s mouth as Maglor dragged a wet line across Fingolfin’s cheek, hovering just there, the corners of their mouths kissing, until Fingolfin couldn’t take another moment of this sweet torment. 

His hand landed on the prominence of Malgor’s hip and _yanked_ the other’s body against his. Maglor smiled into his cheek, and Fingolfin had to have him. He just had to. 

The ache exploded like a desperate thing, wild and eager and so hungry. He had never tasted of such fruit. And it felt like he would burn himself to ashes if he did not drink of this long forbidden and denied delicacy: the nectar of a man’s mouth, or a mouth wearing Fëanor’s smirks and Fëanor’s mocking smiles and Fëanor’s lushness.

And then he had it, he had it all. He covered that sweet temptation with his own lips, and moaned into it as Maglor seized his shoulders and kissed him back like lightning striking earth.

Maglor steered them to the bed, Fingolfin had no senses left but that of touch and taste and smell as he devoured. He tore at Maglor’s clothing, popping buttons and ripping seams, and snapping out strangled orders when he could tear his mouth away from its pursuit of Malgor’s skin. He succeeded in stripping the clothes off Malgor’s back, his own falling as if by magic under Maglor’s dexterous fingers, until he had skin against skin. Maglor let himself be pushed back into the bed (Fëanor never would have yielded, but the thrill of pushing Maglor’s body down into the bed licked up Fingolfin’s spine like fire. What he wouldn’t give to have Fëanor like this, spread out under him.)

Maglor was not as quick as that to concede control, and they battled with kisses until Fingolfin pulled up, keeping Maglor pinned to the bed with his hands pressed flat into that smooth, muscled chest. 

Malgor’s hair splayed black as a raven’s wing across the white pillows, mouth parted, teeth giving way to the pink wetness behind that had driven Fingolfin mad with desire. And eyes of silver lit so hot and fierce they could have been Fëanor’s as he stood before the Noldor like an unfurled banner and inflamed their hearts with the flame in his own.

Fingolfin’s hands began to tremble on Malgor’s skin. He couldn’t quite believe he was here, that he could have this young man, this piece of Fëanor, so beautiful and sensual in his own right. Slowly, like he explored sacred ground, Fingolfin’s fingers dragged down the slope of pectorals and over the ripples of muscles in the flat plain below. He swallowed, watching his skin slide against the winter-pale flesh. His eyes flickered up and all the breath leapt from his lungs. Maglor watched him, eyes burning, face serious in its intense concentration on Fingolfin, as if he could not bear to look away for even a glance lest he miss something. As if everything Fingolfin did, everything he was, was of vital importance. 

Fëanor would never look at him like that. Fingolfin slammed down on the thought, shamed that he brought Fëanor here into bed with them, yet unable to stop himself. It had always been Fëanor. Always. 

He wanted to make it up to Maglor, and he wanted to taste the musk of a man for the first time, so a hand he pretended did not shake wrapped itself about Malgor’s sex. Maglor gasped, arching like a drawn bowstring into the touch, head thrown back, neck barred. It was the most beautiful thing Fingolfin had ever seen (but for the glimpse of Fëanor’s collarbone. Just that slice of skin could enthrall Fingolfin as the naked body of his wife never had).

He took Maglor into his mouth. He learned the skill with Malgor’s hands in his hair, pulling and caressing and demanding more, and that voice that made his knees turn to rosewater under its spell urging him deeper, deeper. He looked up and found Maglor staring back, devouring his face, looking at him and only him. He could have choked on Malgor’s length and called it worth it for a look like that from silver eyes.

He hollowed his cheeks and sucked harder, and drew a moan so lusty and desperate it could have been mistaken for pain from Malgor’s mouth. It was _him_ who made Maglor moan like that. The knowledge spun heady and powerful through every nerve-ending in his body. There was nothing mediocre or unworthy or dismissive in Fingolfin now.

Maglor’s hypnotic voice begged for him, only him, calling out his name like a prayer, those silver eyes hooded but glittering down on him with fire’s lust. He opened his lips wider and fit Maglor in down to the root, and Malgor’s mouth dropped open in a wordless cry as he arched up and came and came and came. He cried out Fingolfin’s name.

Maglor sagged back on the pillows, panting, every muscle in his body loose. Fingolfin looked down on him like a feast. When his fingers touched Malgor’s entrance in permission, Maglor’s eyes snapped open and fixed on him again. The moment drew out like a held breath between them. Fingolfin began to fear he would not be granted this liberty. Fëanor would never have allowed it, not from him. But then Malgor’s thighs fell open and made space for Fingolfin’s body between them. 

Fingolfin licked his lips and slid his hands up the pale slopes of smooth thighs until he had Malgor’s hips between his fingers. His belly clenched with excitement, skeleton vibration with anticipation, shaft swollen so hard he did not see how he could last more than a single thrust into the beauty beneath him. 

He _wanted_. And then he had. He was inside, all the way inside that tight heat. Maglor’s teeth closed over his bottom lip in a bite, thighs locked like iron braces about Fingolfin’s hips, riding out the sting. Fingolfin could have held still for eternity, just like this, sex throbbing with pleasure and the pain of that pleasure, because Maglor was looking at him, eyes flashing a challenge. It could have been Fëanor beneath him. But it wasn’t. It was the son who had looked at him with more intensity and awareness then Fëanor had granted him in decades.

He had Maglor. And their cries bled into growls and teeth-clenched about orders and exclamations, nails digging in for the ride, digging in to mark, mouths eating each other’s, and the scent of fire penetrating ever pore of Fingolfin’s skin. 

When he came inside Maglor Fëanor’s name did not dance upon his tongue. Which was enough he did not collapse with a weight of guilt into the sheets beside Maglor. He had wanted Maglor for himself as well, he must have, Maglor was beautiful and talented and with that silver-bright intellect Fëanor possessed –and he was going to stop comparing Maglor to Fëanor. He was. If only Maglor’s beauty were not the mirror of his father’s. If only the way he strode into a room with that hypnotic, teeth-grinding, blood-stirring confidence and arrogance did not match his father’s. Fingolfin would be able to convince himself he might one day see the son without Fëanor’s features sliding into all the similar features in Maglor’s face.

They lay for a moment, catching their breaths. Fingolfin rolled onto his side, but his fingers hesitated in this quiet moment without the excuse of lust to reach out and touch. In the end he reached out for his desire. His fingers picked up the silk of Maglor’s hair and measured it between them. He wondered if Fëanor’s hair was as fine, and then cursed himself for the thought.

Maglor turned his face to look at him. A smoothness settled over Maglor’s features, eyes suddenly impossible to read. The question of why Maglor had pursued him scratched at Fingolfin’s heart, not allowing him to rest fully into the moment, not allowing him to pull their sated bodies together in a humid, sweaty embrace.

“Why?

Maglor did not need a translation. His eyes never slid away as he answered. “Because you are beautiful. And because I trust you.”

A startled laugh jerked out of Fingolfin. “Trust? Your father’s despised half-brother?”

Maglor’s sat up, turning his back to Fingolfin as he fished for his clothes discarded on the floor. Fingolfin would not allow himself to be disappointed it was over. “I trust you as a man with a thriving sense of self-preservation, or perhaps political-preservation is a more fitting term.” Maglor stood and finished pulling up his leggings, sliding them over the fine curve of his ass. “You will not spread whispers about the ‘deviant’ acts Maglor Fëanorion engages in.” 

Fingolfin looked away. Of course Maglor saw him as Fëanor did: a scheming politician more concerned with his own skin than any moral compass. Of course the only reason he wouldn’t hand Maglor over to those eager to tear a piece out of a son of Fëanor who _dared_ lie with another male was because it might implement Fingolfin as well. Not because it would be a despicable thing to do, not because Fingolfin had the sense to see the laws for the perversions and chains they were; no, of course not.

Fingolfin took the misplaced sadness in his breast between his fists and strangled it. What had he really expected? This was no love affair. Fingolfin himself hadn’t been able to stop seeing Fëanor in the son; he had no right to expect Maglor to see deeper than the surface Fëanor’s eyes slid over, dismissing. 

Whatever he’d imagined they’d shared in the throes of passion had been a lust-dream. He’d seen what he wanted to see in Maglor: Fëanor looking back at him. It had been nothing but a thousand fantasies played out with the body of the son. And it was over now.

Fingolfin slid from the bed and dressed. When he finished arming himself with the shield of cloth, picking up his finery like the pride he’d shed along with it, he found the strength to meet Maglor’s gaze with a cool nod.

Maglor’s brow shot up. “You should not brick-up all that passion again.” He shook his head, crossing to Fingolfin. Fingolfin wanted to deny him when Maglor wound a hand through his hair and pulled him in for a kiss, but he could still taste the memory of the passion that had made his heart pound so fast his blood sang a melody he would never forget.

Maglor’s kiss danced upon his tongue, and then was gone, leaving Fingolfin with the absence of fire, heart cold in his chest. Why had he ever expected any different from a son of Fëanor? Yet he could not regret a moment of it.

Maglor’s hands lingered in his hair. “There, that is better.” His fingers curled around Fingolfin’s nape, and he made a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “I think even my father would not disapprove of you if he had received a bedding like that.” 

Fingolfin’s face closed. He pulled himself out from under those hands, stepping back to put distance between their bodies. 

Maglor’s sighed like the wind rushing over the sea. “I did not mean it in a fit of spite or gloating.”

“We have lingered too long.” Fingolfin spoke to himself, his own clenching fist of a heart, as much as Maglor. Maglor offered no protest to the observation, perhaps feeling the insurmountable walls raised like lines in the sand closing in around them like a second skin.

They put the bedspread in order and flipped the enchanted cover back over. They could do nothing about the remains of their activities left spilled in the sheets. Fingolfin made a note to sneak the covers out in the night and deposit them in the laundry house and trust that no one would be able to recognize the bedspread. 

They parted at the door to the wing, Maglor locking it behind them. Maglor flashed him a smile, and Fingolfin nodded back, and then that was that. Maglor walked away without another glance.


	22. Chapter 22

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 22

Idril screamed with laughter, and ordered her daddy to push her higher. Turgon smiled, a full expression of joy. He caught her as the swing swung back, and tickled her into giggles. 

Elenwë looked up from her place kneeling amongst the flowerbeds. She pushed thick, golden coils of hair off her face with the back of a gloved hand covered in the rich, dark soil of the beds. She laughed as she watched them, a soft, tinkling laugh. The sound drew Turgon’s eyes like a shooting star across the night’s sky. His smile deepened just for her.

That single look between them threw Fingolfin back to happier days. He remembered the nervous energy Turgon radiated side-by-side with euphoria the day on his wedding. Fingolfin had the honor of attending him before the ceremonies. Turgon could sit for hours straight with only the expanding of his diaphragm giving evidence of life; he could out-patience a mountain when he set his mind to it, but on that day he’d been unable to stand still. Fingolfin teased him as he braided his son’s hair with sapphires and drops of pearls until he’d drawn a laugh out of Turgon and broken through the haze of nerves. He’d kissed his son’s brow and told him he was being silly, Elenwë was mad about him; the day would be as perfect as Turgon had wished it. Then he took Turgon’s face in his palms and told him how proud he was of him, and what a fine, good man he had grown into.

How long ago that day seemed now, like another life. Turgon had grown insular, his little family at his heart, his arms wrapped like shields about them against a city ballooning with tension. He planted himself like a rock wall between them and the discords, paranoia, and frothing whirlpool of discontent the city teamed with. He rarely smiled outside of his daughter or wife’s presence now.

Aredhel tossed down the mismatched bouquet of flowers and weeds Elenwë had coaxed her into picking. It landed short of the bench Fingolfin occupied, dropping in a heap to the lawn. Aredhel didn’t give it a second glance. Her mouth wore an unhappy line as she raked a hand through her hair and threw her gaze about the enclosed garden, as if seeking an escape.

“Sit with me?” Fingolfin offered the place on the bench beside him.

She waved him off impatiently. “This heat is stifling. I am for a ride.” It was early summer as yet, and the temperature was nothing the breeze did not sooth.

“Will you not stay a little longer, Sister?” Elenwë rose from her knees, brushing the dirt from her gold colored dress. The color brought out the gold in her skin. “We have missed your company of late.”

Aredhel shook her head, but her expression softened as she looked between her favorite brother’s family. “Another day.”

Fingolfin did not press her to stay or pry into whose company, if any, she would seek. He had learned not to hold his daughter in a grip too-close to a squeeze. He only delayed her long enough to press her hand between his and wish her well before her restless dissatisfaction with the world drove her from their sides yet again.

One man’s company she was guaranteed not to seek out: Celegorm’s. She claimed she broke off their friendship because he’d grown boring, but Fingolfin doubted a son of Fëanor could ever grow dull. Celegorm would not be the first friend she had abandoned on an impulse, egged on by the distorted paths her mind traveled in times of darkness. He had known her to give away some of her most cherished possessions as well as break friendships during these times, but her pride held her back from seeking to regain them after the storm had cleared.

Fingolfin had never expected to regret the termination of her friendship with Celegorm, but she had found freedom in their joined love-affair with the wilderness, and the long hunts they once took together. She had found no peace in the weeks since their friendship’s breaking. A perpetual restlessness, like a heaving sea, hounded her. Her moods washed her back and forth, an unending cycle of drowning and surfacing.

The minute Fingon loped into the garden every head turned. His smile dazzled and he walked with an easy, swinging stride, calling out a greeting. It was as if the troubles crept into every corner of their city had no affect on him. But it was an illusion. He weathered the storm with fortitude to outlast them all, holding tight to his optimistic spirit and confidence in the goodness of the world, but he was not untouched. How could he be when his friendship with Maedhros pulled strained under the fault-lines ripping their two Houses apart?

Fingon had little Guilin on his hip, the child thoroughly enjoying the ride with his hands tangled in his father’s hair and a grin the match of Fingon’s on his lips. Fingolfin smiled to see Guilin so comfortable in his father’s arms. 

Fingon had shocked them all when he came home one day with a five-year-old on his hip. He hadn’t had to finish the introduction of his son for Fingolfin to know the child was his grandson. Guilin had his father’s clear blue eyes, Fingolfin’s own, the black hair of Fingolfin’s line, and a child-Fingon in the shape of his face. Fingolfin had loved that little boy before he even got him in his arms for the first time. Something priceless had come from Fingon’s over-fondness for the female sex, and Fingolfin would hear no words of ‘bastard’ or ‘illegitimate’ or ‘scandal’ in his presence. There was no room for censure in the light of such a gift. The silenced halls of his family’s wing burst anew with the pitter-patter of little feet and a child’s carefree laughter.

Guilin slid from his father’s hip and dashed for Fingolfin. “Papa!” He barreled into Fingolfin’s legs, and Fingolfin scooped him up with a laugh and a kiss. “Did you have a fun time with your daddy?”

Guilin bounced. “Daddy took me swimming, Papa! I was really good, Daddy said! He said I’m gonna be the bestest swimmer in the world one day and win Lord Tulkas’ Games!”

“I am sure you will,” Fingolfin smiled. “Your father is the reigning champion in half the events, and has been since barely grown.”

“Ahha,” Guilin nodded eagerly. “One of Daddy’s friends told me Daddy was the greatest champion of all the Elves in the whole world!”

Fingolfin laughed, sliding a look over to Fingon. Fingon shrugged, grinning. “That he is, dear one,” Fingolfin said.

At that moment Guilin spied Idril on the swing. His eyes flew wide. “I want to play too!”

Fingolfin set Guilin down with a chuckle, and watched Guilin shoot off. His enthusiasm nearly spilled him into the path of Idril’s arching body, but Turgon’s arms swung him up and safely against his chest before Guilin could be harmed. 

Turgon set him back on his feet out of the swing’s range. “You have to use your eyes, Guilin, and keep safe. You cannot go dashing head-long into swings like that.”

Guilin hung his head. “Sorry, Uncle Turgon.”

“Hum,” Turgon gave him a stern look when Guilin peeked up through his bangs.

“Don’t be so hard on him. He was just excited,” Fingon said, winking at Guilin when his son stole a big-eyed look back towards his father.

Turgon frowned. “He is impulsive. He must learn to control this failing before it does him a serious harm.”

“Most children are impulse. They grow out of it.”

“No, you were impulsive as a child, not all children. And the child must be taught how to properly control his impulsive nature or he will grow into an unreliable adult,” Turgon shot Fingon a pointed look, cleanly speaking of how he did not believe Fingon had ever grown out of his failings.

Fingon’s mouth tightened. He ignored the jib and Turgon with it, turning his back to his brother to address his father. “You’re heading down to the square for Fëanor’s speech, aren’t you?”

As if Fingolfin could miss it, but before he could formulate a suitable retort with the proper sprinkling of censure for Fëanor mixed in, Turgon said, “No, and you should not either. It will be more of the same.”

Fingolfin gave Fingon an imploring look to not take Turgon’s tone to heart. Fingon brushed aside his lingering annoyance with his brother to pick-up a jaunty response, “What? And miss all the fun?”

“You should not make light of what Fëanor is doing to our people.” Elenwë, attuned as she was to her love, heard the tightness in Turgon’s voice and abandoned the flowers to step close and lay a quiet hand on Turgon’s arm.

“Daddy, push me!” Idril cried as her father’s attention left her.

Elenwë communicated with her husband in a single look, and took his place behind the swing so Turgon could withdraw his agitated spirit from Idril’s sphere. “You must ask nicely, my dear,” Elenwë said as Turgon and Fingon followed Fingolfin’s lead to put a buffer of distance between themselves and the children.

Fingon said as Fingolfin and Turgon’s heads brushed the under-leaves of a low-hanging bough, “Taking everything so seriously is a recipe for an explosion, Turgon. Anyway,” he waved the words away. “Elenwë can watch Guilin for the afternoon, can’t she?”

“No,” Turgon said in clipped voice. Fingon’s jaw tightened as Turgon continued, “I told you we will not shoulder your responsibilities.”

“Turgon, really,” Fingolfin sighed.

Turgon turned his back on them and cut his strides for the terrace opening out into the garden and holding their afternoon tea. Fingon stalked after him, “I’m not asking you to!”

Turgon swept his robe out with a hand as he selected a seat, ignoring his brother and picking up the book he’d brought out earlier. Fingolfin hung back as Fingon came to stand before his brother, temper high, eyes sparking. They were both old enough to sort out their disagreements without their father’s mediation.

“I’m asking you, as the uncle of my son, if you will watch your nephew for a few hours!” When Turgon did not look up from his book, Fingon hissed, “Would you stop being such an ass for once!”

“Would you cease your infantile dramatics?” Turgon said, turning a page.

Fingon’s nostrils flared. “Why must you always think the worst of me?”

That brought Turgon’s gaze up, startled. His brows furrowed as he scanned Fingon’s face. He said at last, quietly: “I do not.”

Fingon raked a hand through his braids, mussing them. “Well it seems that way,” but the words lacked their former heat, his flashing-lightning temper cooling.

Turgon brought it to life again. “You have breezed through your life for too long, Fingon, shrinking your duties and playing light-fingered with the people around you. I will not enable such behavior by allowing you to shrug your son –your responsibility—off on Elenwë and my shoulders.” 

Fingon made a frustrated sound. “You only see the places I fall short!”

Turgon shut the book with a snap, forging pretence. “You seem determined to play on those failings. Should I allow you to use them as excuses, or demand you work to improve yourself?”

“Argh!” Fingon slashed his hand through the air, flinging himself away. “Everything looks so black and white up on that pedestal you’ve carved for yourself, doesn’t it?”

Turgon rose to his imposing height, face sheer as a cliff face. “Typical. You resort to insults because you lack the self-discipline to stand up straight and hear words of censure. You cannot suffer to have your faults laid bare. Even if it is for your own good.”

Fingon laughed, the sound far from joyous. “Can anymore? Can you? But you aren’t saying this for my ‘own good’ you’re saying it because you—”

“That is enough,” Fingolfin’s voice sizzled the words on Fingon’s tongue and clamped Turgon’s mouth shut. 

Their argument had carried on long enough. They would find no understanding or compassion for their weaknesses in the other. If only his sons could share the kind of brotherhood the sons of Fëanor were blessed with, the kind of love that cradled a brother’s flaws and called them perfect. What had Fingolfin not done in their childhood? What had he done wrong?

Turgon held himself still as a pine on a windless mountain slope, folding all the hurt deep inside. Fingon paced, blowing his anger and hurt out like steam curling off lava. 

Fingon swung to a stop, pivoting to face Turgon. “Look. Will you and Elenwë watch Guilin or not?”

Turgon crossed his arms. “Very well. But this will not become a habit. Do you understand?”

Fingon mumbled something under his breath before he snapped, “I never wanted it to.” He spun away, “I’m going to say goodbye to my son.”

Turgon’s eyes tracked Fingon as he strode with that natural grace of his. Fingon retraced their steps to Guilin who took his turn on the swing, laughing, hair flaying out behind him.

“He needs to stop trying to be Guilin’s friend and start acting like his father,” Turgon said, not pulling his critical gaze away as Fingon reached the tree-swing and caught Guilin as the child’s excitement (and impulsive nature) had him launching himself mid-swing at his father.

“He loves Guilin. That will be enough in the end, just have patience with your brother.”

Turgon’s gaze cut to Fingolfin. “You are always taking his side. He can do no wrong in your eyes, can he?”

“He can make mistakes, as you and your sister can, but I will always love you despite them.” Fingolfin moved closer to Turgon. “I wish you were less hard on your brother.”

Turgon breathed out heavily through his nose. “And I wish you would not coddle him so.”

Fingolfin shook his head, why could Turgon not see? “It is not coddling, just love.” He touched Turgon’s shoulder. “Your brother has learned many hard lessons of late. Will you not have patience with him and meet him in love where he is on his journey?”

Turgon’s jaw clenched. The muscles under Fingolfin’s hand wound tight. “The way he has ever met me?”

“Once you were good friends, and your differences did not stand between you.”

Turgon stepped away, Fingolfin’s hand falling from him. The gaze Turgon met him with was hard. “You blame our distance on me, then? Of course you do.”

“No,” Fingolfin raised his hand like a plea, but did not force the intimacy of a touch into the wall Turgon had drawn about himself. Fingolfin’s hand fell back to his side with the helplessness he felt tightening his throat as the conversation spiral out. “I only wish things could be between you as they once were.”

“There is no fault at my door,” Turgon said. “It was not I who grew bored of my brother to chase after the shinny friendship of a Fëanorion.”

Always it came back to Maedhros, as it had for years. Knowing the cause of Turgon’s initial hurt that grew into resentment helped nothing in healing the rift. “Cannot Fingon have both Maedhros and your friendship?” Fingolfin asked as he had asked in a dozen other conversations that led nowhere.

“Can he? I had not noticed him trying to have both.” Turgon turned away, striding for the steps leading back down into the garden and his waiting family. “You seek to repair that which was long rent. You will not succeed.”

Fingolfin tried one last time. “I do not believe that!” Turgon obliged him by pausing, but not turning back. “I have not believed it since you were ten years old and first came to me with a heart bruised over your brother.” Turgon’s shoulders stiffened at the memory. “I am your father, both of yours. I will never stop hoping my sons will one day make peace and see again the good in the other.”

Turgon’s hand curled into a ball at his side. He did not turn, but his quiet words reached Fingolfin. “It is not that I do not love Fingon. But I do not like him, nor does he like me. Without liking a friendship cannot be re-born, Father, so give up your hopes and accept that this is the way things are now.” Turgon walked away.

Fingolfin would not accept that. 

*

Fingolfin stood before Finwë and the gathered Council of Lords, having risen to his feet to take the floor. His father’s face wore its weariness and sorrow like a hood, pulling his brows and mouth low. 

The lords’ eyes riveted on Fingolfin. Now was the hour. Now was the hour Fingolfin would, at long last, throw his cards for or against Fëanor. Fëanor’s latest and most seditions speech yet had forced Finwë’s hand. At this council Finwë would have to either publically restrain his son or side with him against the Valar.

Fëanor’s chair, left open for the heir at last, sat empty. Maedhros sat at what would have been Fëanor’s right-hand. His face was closed, eyes fixed on Fingolfin.

Fingolfin looked away from his nephew, just looking into those silver eyes, exactly like Fëanor’s, twisted the blade of Fëanor’s knife in. Fëanor’s eyes flashed in his mind: The crowd roared at Fëanor’s feet, the air snapping with Fëanor’s words. The words should not have been as shocking as they were, but Fëanor had never before spoken of outright rebellion against the Valar, naming the Noldor thralls, and crying out that he would lead the Noldor forth, across the seas, and out of thralldom. Fëanor’s eyes had turned to clash with Fingolfin’s, so full of contempt Fingolfin sickened with it. 

Fëanor spoke his next words to the crowd, but Fingolfin had known them for him: “For I tell you: only when our voices grow silent, only when we allow our tongues to be cut from our mouths and our knees to be bound so that we might not stand up and speak out against injustice, only then have we accepted these chains and died the slow death within them! Only those who would seek to be the master of thralls would hold his silence in this hour of deeds!”

Fëanor’s eyes had held his, rocking Fingolfin like a force of nature. Fëanor was the destruction re-birth of a thunderstorm, a hurricane ripping up the old, rotted backbone to plant the seeds of freedom. Fëanor was magnificence and destruction. Fëanor was glory and pain. 

Fëanor was capable of unchaining the stars, rearranging the heavens and fate, throwing down mountains and Powers, anything, anything he dreamed could be his. He could pull them all up with him into a voyage through the stars and the destruction of planets colliding.

And Fëanor looked at Fingolfin like he was nothing, less than nothing, a rot upon the Noldor’s breast.

Fingolfin folded his hands behind his back, head lifting. He felt Fëanor’s coming. His brother walked down the corridor to the Chamber of Lords. Of course Fingolfin felt him; he’d attuned himself to Fëanor long ago. He could smell Fëanor’s scent in a room hours after his departure, and would know the sound of Fëanor’s step out of ten-thousand others.

The words that came out of his mouth now were pushed up from the depths of a hundred knife stabs. The words were born not from Fëanor looking at him like he was a parasite, but from Fëanor looking away again after, and not looking back. Not once looking back. 

Fëanor stood on the door’s other side, opening it. Fingolfin caught the first flash of light on metal. Fëanor would look at him now. He would look. Fingolfin demanded it. 

“King and father, will you not restrain the pride of our brother, Fëanor, who is called the Spirit of Fire, all too truly? By what right does he speak for all our people, as if he were king?” 

The door opened fully; Fëanor stepped into the room. Fingolfin watched him only out of the corner of his eye, pretending to be ignorant. Oh but he saw, he saw. Fëanor, decked out in full armor as if he attended a council of war. He should look ridiculous. He didn’t. He stole Fingolfin’s breath, as he always had. 

“You it was would long ago spoke before the Quendi, bidding them accept the summons of the Valar to Aman. You it was who led the Noldor upon the long road through the perils of Middle-earth to the light of Eldamar. If you do not now repent of it, two sons at least you have to honor your words.”

Fëanor’s voice answered, and Fingolfin turned fully to face his brother. Fëanor’s eyes burned into his skin, looking at him and only him. “So it is, even as I guessed. My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters.” Fëanor’s sword rang off the stones of the chamber as he drew it. The light sliced off the sharpened blade as he swung it to point at Fingolfin. Fëanor’s voice rose to a cry, “Get you gone, and take your due place!”

Fingolfin looked away. Fëanor’s gaze on him heated all the cold places within him, even as the contempt hollowed him out. He offered a bow to his father and king, before striding from the chamber. He did not cast another glance at Fëanor, though every particle of his being was aware of him. He walked out with the full measure of his pride.

Footsteps followed him, overtaking him at the Great Doors of the palace. A hand grabbed him by the arm and threw him against the doorpost. Fingolfin let out a gasp, but not from pain. Fëanor’s eyes scorched him, his body following Fingolfin’s, so close Fingolfin could feel the furnace that skin was but a fair container for. Spirit of Fire. 

Fingolfin became aware of his own arousal. Fëanor’s mouth so close, curled up, teeth showing (what would those teeth feel like on his skin?), the pulse pounding in Fëanor’s neck, Fingolfin’s tongue wet to taste it. Some of Fëanor’s hair, caught back in the tall helm and threaded through with the red plum trailing from the helm’s crown, had fallen forward to lay temptingly across Fëanor’s shoulders. Fingolfin’s fingers itched to measure its fineness. He could not remember ever touching Fëanor’s hair.

He was so hard and wanting, so full of Fëanor, Fëanor, Fëanor, he almost forgot the hardness etched into the bones of Fëanor’s face, sharpening them with distaste. Fëanor’s words brought him back to himself like a bucket of ice water. Fëanor’s sword had been pressed against his chest, but he had been so lost in Fëanor he’d not even noticed until Fëanor began to speak. 

“See, Half-brother! This is sharper than your tongue. Try but once more to usurp my place and the love of my father, and maybe it will rid the Noldor of one who seeks to be the master of thralls.”

Fëanor threatened to kill him. Fingolfin’s couldn’t…he couldn’t….he’d known Fëanor forged swords, and he’d forged his own, but it had never connected in his mind as in this moment. Fëanor looked at him with hate and threatened to kill him.

Fingolfin had won. Fëanor had spoken before the wide-eyes and straining ears of the Great Square packed with people. Fëanor had proved himself irrational and dangerous, and Fingolfin showed himself to be the noble prince who, now, walked away without returning the threat. Fingolfin had won. But as he walked away (see, it was him walking away now) he’d never felt so empty in his life.


	23. Chapter 23

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 23

The light of the Mingling crept into the long shadows between houses. Silver and gold poured into each other and birthed a new color without name. Some beauty bypassed the measure of word and struck directly to the soul.

Carpenters lay down their hammers, stone masons their chisels, stall owners and their customers paused in their exchanges, and children popped their heads up from their games. Tirion stood still in a moment of silence as the high-tide of the Mingling washed over the land.

Fingolfin paused in the street, heart stilling, until Laurelin began her slow fading. The moment passed, and he took up his search for his wayward brother again. 

He’d called first at Finarfin’s house, but the servant directed him here, to the amphitheater. A performance was not scheduled for this evening, but Finarfin had not sought this place out for the arts. 

Fingolfin crossed the white stones of the street, side-stepping a street sweeper and the man’s cloud of dust. The amphitheater towered over the shops clustered about; none butted flush against the marble columns lest their artistry be lost in the press of lower beings.

His hand came to rest flat upon the mahogany doors. The archway curved high above, tall enough to allow the passage of covered litters and men sitting astride fine horses, as well as a humble shop owner taking his family out for a rare treat. Even the poorest of their people treasured the arts, and there were always seats in the upper echelons of the amphitheater reserved for those who could not afford to pay.

Fingolfin’s stomach tensed, like the earth braced in the calm before the storm. But the storm had already passed him by, and left him with driftwood for a heart and the taste of ash in his mouth where his pride had burnt him out. He’d looked into the face of a brother with features of fire, looked into eyes lit with starglow, and known himself for thrice a fool. 

Fingolfin shoved the heavy door open with his shoulder. The sound of his boots echoed off the cool, shadowed marble of the corridor. The silence clashed with the amphitheater’s natural state. On the evening of a performance this corridor would be packed with bodies. Stalls selling all manner of foods –honey cakes, slices of roasted lamb, sherbet kept chill in a bed of ice—would sit side-by-side with the stalls selling ribbons, strings of beads, and feathered hats for little girls to play dress up with, toy spears for a growing boy to act out his own adventures, and glittering masks and mysterious silks for women’s fingertips to trail across as they imagined the parties to be thrown.

Now the corridor echoed with Fingolfin’s steps, and the cold scent of stone untouched by Laurelin’s warmth replaced the rich one of roasting fowl, or the silky scent of a woman in her best dress. At the corridor’s end glimmered a slice of blue sky and light. He strode towards it.

He broke out into the light, and his gaze caught on the flash of gold that was Finarfin. Finarfin worked through his exercises, jogging the soaring stairs of the amphitheater, leaping every other step. Finarfin’s summer curls whipped behind him in a high tail. With his flowing Teleri robes discarded on a bottom bench, the lean body of a runner revealed itself, slender but with a Finwëion’s height.

Fingolfin watched, arms crossed where he stood upon the low stage, and resentment smoldered. Lightning took up residence between his ribs.

Finarfin had sent their father a note dismissing himself from today’s Council of Lords. Today’s council was to be the pivotal moment of their people’s recent history (never mind that Fingolfin miss-stepped and brought everything crashing down –no, it was not Fingolfin who had threatened to kill—). The council was called to address Fëanor’s words of rebellion. It was to be the moment where each of them declared themselves once and for all, and Finarfin hadn’t even bothered show up!

Finarfin spotted Fingolfin as he began his descending loop. He acknowledged Fingolfin with a brisk wave, and jumped the last few steps to land with feet firmly planted on the flagstones. He jogged over, cheeks pinked from excursion, and a few curls plastered to his brow.

“Fingolfin, what can I do for you?” Finarfin’s voice came out a little breathless, but clear, as if no shadow of regret for his absence touched him.

Fingolfin couldn’t bring himself to speak though the clenching of his jaw. If he spoke now he would wish his words back once the anger had passed.

What openness Finarfin had wore in the moment between two brothers slipped from his face. A cool blankness took its place, settling over Finarfin’s features like a second skin. No breathlessness rested in his next words, only the untouchable politeness of address he wielded with the Noldor lords and ladies of court. “If you have come to scold me for dismissing myself from the council that’s sole purpose was to cement the fractioning of our people, than you can go Fingolfin.”

“He threatened to kill me.” Fingolfin hadn’t planned on saying this, especially not in that tone of voice sounding a hair too close to lost, but the words slipped out.

Finarfin’s brows snapped together, cool mask shattered. Fingolfin found comfort in his brother’s visceral reaction to a death threat, at the least. “What? Who?”

“Fëanor. He held a sword against my throat and threatened to kill me.” All the emotion in Fingolfin’s throat had dried up, and the words fell like dead leaves from his mouth. Numbness set in.

Finarfin’s mouth parted. It opened and shut in soundless horror, before he licked his lips and said in a voice of bewilderment, as if Fingolfin’s words were incomprehensible, “Why would he do such a thing? It makes no sense.”

The emotion roared back into Fingolfin’s breast, and he spit out as he wished he’d spit out at Finwë when his father had told him not to think himself the victim in this, for had Fingolfin not spoken words against Fëanor in the council chamber? “Are you going to accuse me of doing something to deserve this, as well? Is it all my fault Fëanor has gone insane?”

Finarfin’s hand rose, palm out, as if to sooth a white-eyed horse. “No, that is not my meaning. But what can Fëanor have been thinking to do such a thing? Surely there was something that…provoked him.”

Fingolfin’s head went up, shoulders back. “Do even you defend him? Of Father I expected no different. He will brush it all aside and name Fëanor the wronged. But you? You?”

“Fingolfin—” Finarfin reached out for him, but Fingolfin stepped back before the hand could reach his shoulder. Finarfin sighed like the weight of worlds. “I hate this.” He turned his face away, towards the rows and rows of marble steps slowly gathering shadows as the golden light seeped out of the sky. “I hate that it has come to this. I would not set myself against Fëanor, for he is my brother and I hold no grudge against him. But you, Fingolfin, are more a brother to me than he ever was.” 

Finarfin’s eyes found Fingolfin’s again. They wore an apology, a sorry stitched in the lines about them and the sorrow of furrowed brows. “I hoped –foolishly—that if I stood aside, these rumors could die like fire denied fuel, but what a fool’s hope that was! I cannot tell you truthfully that I wish I have stood with you today, because every step that has led us here, to this moment, has been taken against the warnings in my heart. But I do regret not doing more for you. I am sorry, Fingolfin. I know it is too late now, but I am sorry I failed you when you needed me most.”

Fingolfin’s resentment seeped from him like puss drained from a wound, taking the kernel of bitterness that had lodged itself in his chest with it. He let it go willingly, wishing it gone far from him. 

He crossed the distance to his brother and rested a hand on Finarfin’s shoulder. “Do not blame yourself. I wish I had done as you counseled and ignored every dark whisper. I do not know how you managed to let none of the rumors touch you.” Fingolfin’s hand fell from the slope of his brother’s shoulders with a sigh. “It was the opposite way when we were children. Do you remember? I used to worry about you, for everything seemed to upset you.”

A shadow passed over Finarfin’s face, and his voice went stiff as wood. “You tried your best. You were only a child yourself. It was not for you to understand and heal.”

“But it was. I was your brother, and your elder,” Fingolfin searched his brother’s face as Finarfin withdrew into himself. “I did not know how to make you happy, or why such things as a cat’s broken leg or a spilled water glass drove you to tears.”

Fingolfin looked into his brother’s removed face, and the memory of the strawberry-sweet smile of Finarfin’s youth hit him. He did not know the exact moment Finarfin shed that expressive mouth and closed those wide, soft eyes to open veiled and carefully composed ones upon the world.

What Fingolfin remembered of their childhood was this: running hand in hand to their secret hiding place –the garden pond so thick with colorful fish they couldn’t wade a step without fins tickling their ankles—laughing so hard they slipped on the grass and went down in a tumble of limbs. Sneaking into Finarfin’s bedroom to play back-to-back rounds of chess until they fell asleep over the game board, Fingolfin trouncing Finarfin every time, but Finarfin accepting his losses with a smile part adoration, part self-deprecation. Silly drawings Finarfin hid between the pages of Fingolfin’s books to laugh at in the long hours of study, and Finarfin interrupting lessons to the scowls of the tutors to bring Fingolfin an express batch of cookies. Finarfin’s curly head bent as he hugged a cat with one missing paw, kissing the little stump, eyes shining with tears and a determination to right all the hurts in the world burning through his veins like a fever. A rabbit with its eye gorged out this time, Finarfin’s high voice begging their mother to keep it, for Finarfin was a creature spun of compassion. Finwë and Indis’ raised voices and Finarfin –tender, sensitive, Finarfin—hiding in the crook of Fingolfin’s arm with his hands pressed over his ears; Finarfin hated yelling. Irimë dancing a taunting circle about a crying Finarfin with skinned knees and wearing the dirt of the city streets he’d snuck out to explore, chanting ‘I’m telling, Mother, I’m telling, Mother!’ Finarfin’s anxious eyes as Finwë asked each of his children about their activities that day: Fingolfin telling of the glass bowl he’d forged, searching his father’s face for a smile and receiving it (not as bright as Finwë’s smiles for Fëanor); Irimë speaking proudly of her embroidery work and receiving her own smile; and Finarfin, biting his lip, before launching into a hesitant tale of his friend whose father had yelled at him and made him cry, ‘He was sad, so I made him happy again, and then we played skipping squares in the garden.’ Finarfin received an absent smile, Finwë not knowing quite what to make of this son of his. Finwë and Indis throwing sharp words across the table, and Finarfin’s nervous hands knocking over yet another glass, Indis’ heavy voice sighing, ‘Must it always be you, Finarfin? Sometimes I truly despair for you.’ 

Fingolfin looked into the coolly composed eyes of his brother, and could find nothing of the child Finarfin had once been. 

Finarfin turned his gaze away, arms coming up to fold in a cross of protection over his ribs. “It was not—it was not those things that made me cry. Or rather, I did cry over an injury in another, and I remember crying when I made messes or displeased Mother. But it was not that I spilt a water glass, Fingolfin. Do you not remember…?” Finarfin turned back to look into all the corners of Fingolfin’s face. Fingolfin did not know what he looked for, but whatever it was he did not find it, and turned away again with a shake of his head. “Sometimes I think we grew up in two entirely different households with two entirely different sets of parents.”

“What do you mean?” But Fingolfin had an idea of what Finarfin spoke of.

Their father’s reserve and preoccupation, and their parents’ frequent disagreements –Fëanor at the heart of most—had left Finarfin unhappy. But Finarfin was not alone in wishing for more of their father’s attention. Didn’t all three of them long for that?

Their mother’s love was hard to bear and lay heavy upon Fingolfin. Finarfin bore no expectations, while Fingolfin bore them all. But Fingolfin had endured a mother’s love that nearly suffocated, Finarfin was lucky to have known none of that. If Indis was disappointed with how one of her sons had turned out, well, at least she’d let Finarfin be after a time.

Finarfin sighed. “Fingolfin, there was a reason I ran away when I was fifteen.”

Fingolfin blinked, lost for words for a moment. “What are you talking about? When did you run away?”

Finarfin whipped back around to stare at Fingolfin. He spoke slowly, as to a child. “Fingolfin, I ran away to Alqualondë. And there I stayed. I did not come back to Tirion until Finrod was born.”

Fingolfin’s head reeled. “But—but Father sent you to foster with Olwë. That is—” 

“No, Fingolfin. It should not surprise me to learn Finwë told you a lie. Finwë came to fetch me back (he did not want the scandal, I am sure), but I would not return with him.” Finarfin’s face flickered with deep emotion, so he hid it by turning his body away.

Fingolfin stared at the straight line of his brother’s shoulders, fortified against him. Against anyone. “You ran away. To Alqualondë. And I never knew?”

Finarfin shrugged. Fingolfin couldn’t bear the blankness of a back, so he circled the curve of that turned shoulder, seeking out his brother’s eyes. Finarfin did not try to run again, but he kept his eyes averted. “None of it was your fault, and it was poor timing when I let. I know. I understand that. And you visited me in later years. I have no right to complain.”

“But how could I not have seen?” How could he have been so blind? Only moments ago he had counted Finarfin blessed to have escaped the worst of Indis. Blessed! “Was I really so self-absorbed that I could not look outside myself long enough to see you, my own brother, needed me?”

“No.” Finarfin used the word as a knife to cut the idea off at the root. “You were not self-centered. But…” His mouth gathered lines. “You never came to visit me during those first few months when it still mattered.” His throat bobbed, and his voice dropped quite as pebbles into a pool of absolute stillness. Fingolfin did not think he drew breath as he took the blows, not unkindly given, but painful in the revelations all the same. “When I longed for you to come so I could confess every hurt in my heart to you, and you could sooth it all away as you always did.”

“Finarfin—” Fingolfin’s voice broke. His hands curled into fists at his sides, their bones aching to reach out, but unsure of his welcome. “I did not know. Forgive me. I did not know. I—when I came to you, to Alqualondë, you were not…you seemed content.”

Finarfin turned fully to him. Fingolfin found no censure in his eyes, only sorrow. His brother bridged the distance between them, and took Fingolfin in an embrace. They had not held each other like this since they were boys. “You must not blame yourself, for what you saw was what I wanted you to see.”

“Why?” Fingolfin’s fingers tightened in Finarfin’s tunic. “Why could you not tell me the truth? We were so close once.”

Finarfin’s breath puffed out against Fingolfin’s cheek as he drew back, letting the embrace drop. He took up Fingolfin’s gaze, not shying away though he must have wanted to. “I could not tell you because you were you. You are fearless and strong, intelligent and decisive. A true Noldo. You even have their looks and their talent in the arts. But me? What was I but the weak son? The son of Finwë who could not be more unlike his father and his father’s people if he tried.” Finarfin’s eyes slid away before he gathered himself and forced them up to meet Fingolfin’s again. 

Fingolfin’s fingers came up to catch at Finarfin’s sleeve, as if to keep him from slipping away again. But the movement was a paltry thing compared to the crushing weight of Finarfin’s confession. All these years with these words that fester and ate away like termites had been hoarded in Finarfin’s heart? And Fingolfin had not known. He’d had no idea.

Fingolfin cut the silence before it could grow thorns and become another barrier between them. “Did you leave because of Mother or because of Father?”

“Both. Mainly Indis though.”

“Because her love was too heavy a burden to bear?” Fingolfin spoke with the words of his own experiences. Of a mother’s love that smothered until he imagined he could feel her hands about his neck, suffocating him with her expectation, her own hopes and dreams he wore like a noose some days.

But Finarfin answered: “I left because I was not sure there was any love to bear.” He took in a deep breath and let it out like he exhaled the past. “I have come to believe she loves me –though it is a little love. After Angrod was born we spoke. I was able to confront her, as I could not as a child. I was no longer the same youth who had only been able to run away.” Finarfin’s mouth tipped up in a smile that held nothing of that strawberry-sweetness of childhood. “Things between us have improved –a very little. We will never have a close relationship, but I no longer care to.”

Fingolfin’s fingers tightened about his brother’s sleeve and pulled him into another embrace, swift but warm. “Do not allow her disapproval and those practiced looks of disappointment of hers to take root.”

Finarfin laughed, a dry sound, but one not knotted in bitterness. “Do not worry. I know all her tricks by now. There is no danger of her ever again gaining such control over me.”

On the tip of Fingolfin’s tongue sat the observation that Finarfin had not wholly shed Indis’ perspective if he could speak so easily of his ‘failings’ as a Noldo and son, but he swallowed it back for another time. The air between them remained tentative, like invalids testing out their newly-healed bones, the fear of pushing too far and re-breaking their brotherhood riding in the backs of their words and eyes. With time though, Fingolfin hoped for a healing in full.

When Fingolfin parted from Finarfin, his feet marched him straight back to the palace. Laurelin’s light had all but waned from the sky, leaving the world bathed in silver with the stars weak points of brilliance behind Telperion’s shine. 

The palace rose like a colossus of white marble. A green lawn and sculpted fountains flowing with water hailed him, as columns swirling with blushing pinks and golds lining the pathway from the palace’s Northern gate. Double doors carved with eagle wings spilled into Finarfin’s family wing of the palace. 

Though Finarfin had a house of his own in the city, Finwë had insisted upon leaving a place at ‘home’ open to him and his children. Fingolfin cut through corridors of marble polished to shine, gold gilding the panels of every wall. The ceiling rose open and echoing two-stories high with columns running along the length of the open balconies of the second story, with massive crystal chandeliers the bane of the servants filling the open space with light. This wing was nothing out of the ordinary for current Noldorin architecture that favored the extravagant and grandiose. It held very little in common with Finarfin’s Telerin inspired home.

Fingolfin left his brother’s wing behind and broke into the heart of the palace where the administrative center of their people’s government was housed. For how late the hour grew, the corridors still bustled with lords, courtiers, scribes, and worried citizens rushing hither and thither. Not surprising given today’s events.

Fingolfin did not allow himself to be roped into anything but the barest of pleasantries by the passing Elves (many flocking towards him), as he cut his way to his father’s office. He found his father still at his desk as he’d anticipated. 

Finwë looked up from his work at Fingolfin’s entrance, taking in the set line of his son’s jaw. A resigned expression stole over his face. He sighed, dropped his quill, “No, I am not going to discuss my conversation with Fëanor with you, Fingolfin. That is between us. However, I do not believe Fëanor’s heart was behind his words of violence against you. You angered him, greatly, and he spoke with the fire of that anger.”

Fingolfin almost allowed himself to be distracted by the explosion of outrage in his chest. He could read from Finwë’s tone alone that that single conversation with Fëanor and his ‘belief’ in Fëanor’s good intentions was to be the end of it. Finwë would never hold Fëanor accountable for threatening to kill him. But Fingolfin had known from the first that Finwë would do nothing, so he squeezed the feelings of bitter unfairness into a ball of compressed iron and swallowed them down.

Fingolfin disabused Finwë of his mistaken belief in Fingolfin’s motivation for coming. “I am not here about Fëanor. I am here about Finarfin.”

Finwë frowned. “What about him? I did not see him in council today or in the square. In fact, your brother has done a remarkable job keeping himself above petty rumors,” he gave Fingolfin a pointed look that smacked of hypocrisy. Finwë never would have spoken or looked at Fëanor like that, and Fingolfin had not been alone in listening to rumors.

“I want to know why you lied to me about Finarfin’s ‘fostering’ in Alqualondë.” Finwë’s hands had been busy setting his desk into neatness, they stilled with the words. “I want to know why you did nothing to help your own son.”

Finwë stood. He wore his king’s face. “These are complicated matters. You were too young at the time to hear the truth, so I gave you and your sister a kinder explanation for Finarfin’s absence. How could I tell you your brother had left you—”

“Don’t you dare blame this on Finarfin!” Fingolfin’s chest heaved. He felt out of control, too much had packed inside and he couldn’t deal with his father talking to him like a child and brushing aside Finarfin’s pain on top of everything else. “And do not try to take the easy out of ‘youth’ for your lies. I was of age, with a son of my own on the way. No. You did not tell anyone the truth because it was easier for you that way!”

Finwë drew himself up. “I will not be spoken to in that manner. I am your father and your king, and the decisions I made I did with the thought of what was best for my people and family in mind. Now, I have the more pressing matter of Fëanor’s needs to attend to, and no time for the past.” He circled the desk, cutting a line for the door, robes of state swirling around his brisk strides. He kept his head high, face closed, only the clenching of his hands, rings flashing in the light, gave evidence to what this truly was: running away.

Finwë was always running away. Always in denial over something, and Fingolfin was sick of it. As Finwë made to sweep passed him, Fingolfin’s hand shot out and clenched about his father’s bicep, spinning him around. He caught a glimpse of outraged features that he dare man-handle his father and king, before he pushed himself into his father’s mind, seeking answers. 

He had never forced ”sanwe on another before, nor heard of it being abused in such a way. It was a violation, and yet Fingolfin could not bring himself to care. He took advantage of his father’s moment of shock to snatch the memory of Finwë’s conversation with Finarfin at Alqualondë.

(He found his run-away son housed like a Teler prince in Olwë’s palace. He brushed aside Olwë’s invitation to linger on a while, needing this over with as quietly and quickly as possible. He had already been hard-pressed to deflect the many inquires as to where Finarfin had disappeared to so suddenly. If Finarfin had not left him a note (some measure of reasonability drilled into his son’s flighty-head), he would have been left flap-mouthed like a fish, no answers, until scrutiny and gossip took the court by storm.

He was not pleased, and he would be sure to make Finarfin feel his displeasure. What did the boy mean by taking an unauthorized holiday to Alqualondë? For that was what this was, some youthful rebellious phase in which Finarfin choose the popular summer-get-away spot of Alqualondë complete with a room in Olwë’s luxurious palace. 

Finwë had no patience for such childishness. If Finarfin was having difficulties with his mother he needed to learn to respect the authority over his life. Finarfin had not suffered the grief Fëanor had; he had not had to live through Fëanor’s turbulent childhood; he had no excuse for such behavior.

Finwë resented that Finarfin had dragged Olwë into their private, family affairs. He forced another smile at the Teleri monarch seated across from him. They were friends from another time, another world (one Finwë preferred not be reminded of). They maintained their friendship on this side of the sea, though it had cooled as the distance of centuries grew between them. 

Finwë’s heart clenched as the light slid off Olwë’s silver hair. Míriel had shared a relation, though distant, with the Nelyar clan’s ruling family. But Finwë was not here to reminisce on the past. He must look to the future.

Finwë stood, wanting this ordeal over with. “Thank you for your hospitality, Olwë, but I think it is time I took my son home. Children,” he put on a practiced smile, “You know what they are like.”

Olwë made a humming noise, watching him closely. Finwë did not like what that look spoke of. What tales had Finarfin been telling? But Olwë stood, silver silk robe slithering about him. “A shall call a servant to show you to his room. I think, perhaps, a private reunion would be best.”

Finwë kept his smile on, and accepted the noisy suggestion with grace. He followed a servant down the corridors of the Teleri palace. Color assaulted his eyes, for he had grown used to the white marble of Tirion with its celebration of light and clean order, everything having its proper balance, lush but symmetric. The Telerin style favored chaos. Everywhere he turned he was met by a riot of color, reds and sea-blues being the favored pallet. The Teleri architecture bent towards the simplistic and airy, so walls were seen as optional which offered a fantastic view of the sea and the colorful roofs of the city marching down to the docks, and added more color to the assault on the senses.

Finarfin’s room could have been a former abode of one of Olwë’s sons, so lavish and spacious was it, but none of Olwë’s sons had followed their father across the sea. Finwë shoved the thought aside; he did not dwell on those left behind.

Finarfin was not reclining on any of the low-backed couches, or lounging with a book behind the massive bed’s purple silk drapes. Finwë walked the perimeter of the circular bath set into the floor of the main room, and pushed aside the hanging curtain that served as all the door the far side of the room boasted, to step out to the balcony beyond.

Palm trees waved a welcome in the breeze, a water-garden spread out for the eye’s delight below the balcony’s railing, with the sea singing its mournful hymn beyond. Finarfin slid an almost careless gaze over, arm serving as the perch for a gaggle of greenfinches and swallows he fed seeds out of the cup of his palm. Anything casual in Finarfin’s face wiped away the moment his eyes took in his father, standing arms crossed and stern-faced.

Finarfin dropped his eyes. Good. He should feel ashamed to be caught in idle entertainment after Finwë had been forced to leave his duties and family behind to come fetch Finarfin home again.

Finarfin did not launch into a hasty babble of apology or set his shoulders and spew off his list of imagined ‘justifications’ for his behavior. With careful, meticulous hands he scattered the seeds across the lip of the balcony, taking his time with it, delaying, before he coaxed the birds down one at a time to jump into his palm for a ride to the balcony.

Finwë watched the activity with a set mouth. Why could Finarfin not, for once, have been occupied in an activity that would further his mind? Was there no ambition at all in even a single bone in his body? No thirst for knowledge, no delight in debate, no passion for arts, or the hoeing of his body for competitions, or anything else Finwë could understand?

Finwë did not admit it to himself often, but he had never paid as much attention to his youngest son as he gave his elder children. Finarfin was just so…different. Finwë didn’t know what to make of him, or how to relate to a child so wholly divorced from himself.

When the last bird had been settled, Finarfin turned back to his father, empty hands now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “I did not expect you to come, Father.”

Finwë humped. “What did you expect than, exactly? Do you think I would read your poor explanation of running off and shrug, saying ‘boys will be boys?’ If nothing else, I am the King of the Noldor and you are one of your people’s princes, you cannot run off with poor excuses. It lends an unfavorable impression on our House, and could cause unease in the people.”

Finarfin’s shoulders hunched. “I am sorry, Father, I…I didn’t think of that.”

“No. I did not think you would.”

Finarfin winced.

Finwë sighed, relenting. Finarfin was just so…submissive, so soft. Finwë’s displeasure dried out in the face of his son’s cringing. Privately he found it distasteful, but worked to keep that from his face. He could not stay angry at a creature that reminded him more of a mouse than a man. 

“Well fetch your things now, and hurrying along with it. I want to be back on the road within the hour. There is no need to impose longer on Olwë’s hospitality.”

Finarfin did not move. His fingers twisted tighter in his sleeve, and he caught his lip between his teeth in a terrible habit of worrying it. Finwë’s impatience made his words sharper than he’d intended, “Get a move on now. I don’t have time for dramatics today.” That was unfair. It was Indis and Irimë who he had to fear dramatics from, not mouse-like Finarfin.

The words had an entirely unexpected affect on Finarfin. His head came back, eyes flashing a fierce blue under a swath of golden curls. “No. I am not going back.”

Finwë stared, open-mouthed, caught wrong-footed in the shock of this son talking back. He hadn’t thought Finarfin had it in him. 

Finwë could have easily gathered himself and come down hard on such a disrespectful tone and crushed Finarfin to his will, but he did not. This was the first spark of fire he recalled seeing in Finarfin for years. The boy used to cry and rail when his pets were taken away, but it had been some time since Finarfin did anything but what he was told with meek acceptance.

Finwë folded his hands behind his back and crossed the balcony to Finarfin with the caution one approached a wild animal. Finarfin had turned away after his outburst, but his hands still fisted at his sides, slender body trembling with emotion. Finwë gained Finarfin’s side without his son shying away from the proximity. 

Finwë settled his hands on the balcony rail, looking down at the surf licking the shore far below. “Why don’t you tell me why you decided to leave your family with only a note?”

Finarfin’s hands came to rest with hesitancy on the rail beside his father’s. They looked so small, golden, and delicate next to Finwë’s. They would have made good artisan’s hands if only Finarfin had the will to apply himself.

“I was not…happy there. I...I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“What couldn’t you take?” Finwë turned his gaze down on the bowed golden head.

Finarfin darted a glance up, all the timidity gathered in his face again. “Mother, she…she thinks me…useless.”

Finwë sighed. “You mother can be exacting in her expectations, but that is only because she loves you and wants only the best for you. She wants you to succeed, but I am afraid that sometimes her love can come across as impossible expectations. I have spoken to Fingolfin about this before. If you had gone to your brother instead of running away Fingolfin could have helped you understand.”

Finarfin dropped his eyes. He bit his lip. “Where—did Fingolfin not want to…see me?”

Finwë waved the fear aside, “Do not be foolish. Fingolfin could not have come when Anairë is expecting their son’s birth in a matter of weeks.”

“Oh. I didn’t think…” Finarfin’s whisper broke off. How may sentences had he begun with those exact words? Finarfin had a habit of not thinking things through.

“All the more reason to come along home now. Think of how hurt Fingolfin will be if you are not there for his son’s birth?”

“I…” Finarfin’s hands slipped from the railing to wrap about his middle. “I can’t go home. Please, Father,” his eyes came up, wide and pleading, “Can you tell Fingolfin I am sorry for me? Make him understand I..I—”

“That is enough, Finarfin.” Finwë’s patience grew thin again. Finarfin was being ridiculous. Imagine thinking of staying here, separated from his family? He was no Fëanor and would not be able to handle a month alone. He was too breakable. He lacked Fëanor’s wings, Fëanor’s passion, Fëanor’s resourcefulness, Fëanor’s confidence, Fëanor’s intelligence. “This entre venture was hasty and ill-thought out, but we will put it all in the past now. A good long talk with Fingolfin will mend this, so go pack your things now.”

Finarfin’s mouth wore sorrow like a dress in its trembling line. But stubbornness worked itself into his shoulders as he turned from Finwë, giving him his back. “You cannot understand.”)

Fingolfin found himself shoved out of his father’s head, and the memory terminated with the power of a blow to the face. He staggered back, hand flying to his forehead that felt like it was splitting in two. His foot caught on the corner of the rug and he stumbled to one knee. He looked up at his father through watery eyes, hands cradling his skull.

Finwë’s face was stone. “You will never violate my privacy like that again. Do I make myself clear?”

Fingolfin’s jaw clenched. If it were only his father Fingolfin would have spurned the authority Finwë tried to force into his neck, but it was the King who spoke to him now, so Fingolfin nodded, then regretted the movement as what felt like lightning shot from his temples to gather in the base of his nape. “I understand,” he ground out through teeth clenched against the pain.

Finwë watched him struggle to breath for another moment, eyes devoid of compassion, before he let out a long breath through his noise. “The pain will serve as a fitting punishment and lesson. If your head is still bothering you by the end of the hour, you have my permission to seek out a healer.”

The pain was already settling into a sharp but bearable throb. Fingolfin found his feet, unwilling to remain on his knees even before his king. He met Finwë’s cool gaze with a frosty one of his own. Fragments of the memory played over and over behind his eyes. Finwë had no right to act the injured party here, not after the way he’d treated Finarfin, not after the dismissive contempt Fingolfin had tasted in Finwë’s mind when he looked down upon his own son. 

“What other words did you inflict on him that day before you finally showed him how worthless you considered him by not bothering to pause your busy schedule long enough to understand why your own son did not want to come home with you?”

Finwë’s hand cut through the air. “Enough. I will not listen to this another moment. I love your brother, and respected his wishes to remain in Alqualondë when he showed continued disinterest in returning to Tirion. I also respected his wishes, and listened to his fears concerning Indis. I ensured she never visited him. I gave him what he asked for –peace and distance—”

“He needed your love! But he wasn’t enough like Fëanor for you to see anything worth loving in him, was he?”

Finwë looked away, the tendon in his jaw bunched. He said nothing for a long moment in which Fingolfin’s heavy breathing and the distant ringing of the evening bells were the only sounds between them. When Finwë turned back, the blocks that had been holding up his wall had tumbled, and his face gave expression to the turmoil within. “I regret…” Finwë squeezed his eyes closed. “But it is done and cannot be undone. Living in the past brings nothing but grief; I must look to the future, as must you.” 

Finwë opened his eyes, the emotion folded away again. “Your brother has moved on, as must you. We have conflicts to resolve that do not hover on the horizon but have been brought into our midst today. You must find a way to work with Fëanor, or our people will never heal. Now,” Finwë turned towards the door, all too eager to leave Fingolfin and the mistakes of the past in the room and seek his ‘future’ elsewhere. “Fëanor needs my support. So I would advise you to think hard on your own actions today, for he was not alone in escalating this conflict, nor can you paint yourself blameless in your actions and words before the Council. They were not only ill-chosen, but purposefully-chosen.”

Fingolfin laughed, the sound brittle. He was so done with this. His father would never change, and he didn’t know why he’d ever thought he would. Finwë paused at the sound, hand on the door’s latch, but not looking back. 

Fingolfin shook his head, a smile fed-up with the back braced against reality on his mouth. “Go then. Choose the only son you have ever given a damn about.”

Finwë’s shoulders angled back, but he did not turn enough to meet Fingolfin’s eyes. “That is not true,” he said. But it certainly looked like the truth when he slipped from the room without another word, not bothering to stay and make Fingolfin understand he was loved as much as the son who never failed to eclipse them all in Finwë’s mind. 

Fingolfin’s breath came out in a disgusted huff. He gave his back to the door, and cast his eyes down though the window into the city running out in neat, perfectly straight and pre-planned lines. Silver light lent the white, paved streets and stone buildings an eerie air. 

He didn’t know why he’d even sought his father out. Perhaps some buried part of him had still harbored the hope that one day Finwë would prove him wrong and demonstrate with action the denials of favoritism that fell common as dirt from his mouth. It was a child’s hope, still wishing his father would love him, still trying to find a way to earn just one of those proud, brilliant smiles never shone down on him. He should have outgrown it, but he could no more leave it behind then he could stop himself from loving the deeply flawed man who would always be his father.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: If you recognize it, it comes from the Silmarillion. There are some direct quotes in this chapter, only modified into modern English.

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 24

The Valar summoned Fëanor to the Gates of Valmar and the Ring of Doom. By the laws of Valinor, which had been formed with no consent of the Noldor, the Valar had the right to do this. But that law was unjust, and should have been thrown out long since (would have been if Fëanor’s words had been heeded).

Slowly the tangled web of Melkor’s lies was unpicked before the Ring of Doom. It took days of testimonies. Every Elf who had been involved in these matters to the least degree was brought forward to speak. But eventually the root of Melkor’s planting, a handful of seeds here, a handful there that grew into a carnivorous thorn tree infecting the hearts of the Noldor, was revealed.

Fëanor had come to the Ring of Doom with wrath thrumming under his skin, kept in check lest he drop a weapon into the hands of the Valar to wield against him. He only answered the summons because he was not a fool. As yet, the Valar were the power in the land, and the Noldor were not yet ripe for full rebellion. 

He had been justified in his actions against Fingolfin. He had been grossly provoked, named a traitor before the Council of Lords, and his loyalty to his father and king cast under the shadow of doubt. But the revelation of Melkor’s poison at the root disquieted him. Melkor had used them all, even him, as playthings, and that Fëanor could not abide. 

Mandos pronounced his judgment, the Valar shouldering their way into a matter that was between Elves, and undermining Finwë’s authority. “You speak of thralldom. If thralldom it be, you cannot escape it; for Manwë is King of Arda, and not of Aman only. And this deed was unlawful, whether in Aman or not in Aman. Therefore this doom is now made: for twelve years you shall leave Tirion where this threat was uttered. In that time take council with yourself, and remember who and what you are. But after this time this matter shall be set in peace and held redressed, if others will release you.”

Mandos claimed the banishment was on account of Fëanor ‘upsetting the peace of Valinor.’ But ah, Fëanor was no fool. This banishment was not on account of his threat to Fingolfin; it was a punishment for daring to speak so boldly against the Valar. 

Fëanor had seen the truth and called his people to action, ripping away the Valar’s lies to reveal their true natures to the Noldor. He had named the Valar oppressors, and the Noldor‘s lives under their dominion thralldom. This the Valar could not allow. They wanted Fëanor gone, far away, so he could not open any more eyes to the truth. They wanted him shivering in his boots to be reminded of their Power, and they wanted their power over him demonstrated to all the assembly. 

But Fëanor did not speak. He could, if he so chose, hide his thoughts. He did so now. He would give the Valar nothing.

Fingolfin spoke up, but Fëanor did not turn to look at him. “I will release my brother.”

Fëanor saw right through that. Fingolfin desired to show himself reasonable, forgiving, lordly and wise, and cast a shadow over Fëanor’s own actions. Fingolfin spoke only for show. There were many ears listening, their father’s among them. Fingolfin would like Father to look upon him as the better son. 

Fëanor’s hand fisted at his side, but he kept his eyes straight ahead, not turning a glance at Fingolfin as he strode from the assembly. He would not allow Fingolfin to usurp him in his father’s heart!

*

Fëanor cupped his chin as he stared into the fire. It ate its greedy way through the logs, setting the room aglow in a soft shade of orange with the scent of pine and smoke. The Hearth Room was yet bare of most furnishings; just two chairs had been left before the hearth when Curufin and Celegorm dragged them over earlier. 

The floor was only half set, the back length of the wall bare of floorboards, and a covering of sawdust over all. Fëanor had plans to add some wall scones to hold his Lamps, but as yet only two of the walls were complete, the heath and the outer wall. The other two were nothing but a line of wooden columns awaiting the oak boards that would be nailed into place in a day or so.

Foremost would be complete before the winter snows, down to the last farmer’s house. Fëanor would make sure of it. His people would not want under his watch.

Footsteps fell softly behind him. He turned to see his father entering through one of the naked walls. His father wore no crown. He’d left it in Tirion with Fingolfin. 

Finwë sat heavily in the chair beside him. He did not smile as his eyes met Fëanor’s. 

His father had left his thick, dark mane down. It curled at the ends, damp from a recent bath, and he’d pulled only a simple tunic over his leggings, forgoing any adornment. 

Fëanor looked into his father’s face and saw Fingolfin’s eyes looking out at him. Clear blue, set against that fall of black hair. They caught the eye and held it. But there the comparison ended, because when Fëanor let his lashes fall and brought to mind Fingolfin’s eyes, they flashed at him with blue-fire or, back, far back to the memories he still horded even after he’d stopped hording the person within them, those eyes had looked up at him with pure adoration, with love.

He opened his eyes and met his father’s. His father had followed him into banishment, but Fëanor couldn’t help thinking the larger part of Finwë wished he was home again, back in Tirion with the wife he’d purchased with Mother’s death and the children not even his public choosing of Fëanor had completely convinced Fëanor Finwë did not prefer –secretly. For had Finwë not left Fingolfin the crown, and Fëanor’s birthright with it? 

Finwë did not break the silence between them, and it became oppressive. They had never known the easy companionship Fëanor had spied Finwë sharing with Fingolfin. When Fëanor was a child, before the remarriage, he spent every evening with his father. But that was a long time ago, and they had grown apart. 

He didn’t think his father knew who he was anymore. He didn’t know if he knew who his father was either. And that chasm fed into the conviction that Fingolfin would replace him. Of course he would; he already had.

Finwë did not speak, did not reach out to cross the distance and take Fëanor’s hand or tell him he loved him. Finwë hadn’t said those words for some time, not even when he’d come to tell Fëanor he’d be joining him in exile. Maybe he didn’t say them because they were no longer true. 

Fëanor told his own sons he loved them every day, with almost obsessive clockwork. When they sat down to breakfast he would go to each of his sons, even now as adults, and kiss their brows and tell them he loved them. They’d eat the morning meal together and he would inquire over their plans for the day. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, he would rise from his bed and sneak into his sons’ room as he did when they were children to watch the steady rise and fall of their chests, stroke the hair back from their faces and whisper his ‘I love you’s’ into their slumbering ears. He’d found himself doing so more often of late.

Finwë had yet to speak, as if he had nothing to say to his son. Into the soft popping of the fire, the quiet of these Northern nights where Telperion was a distant glow that did not stretch its silver arms out to them, Fëanor opened his mouth and said the words that had ridden on the dark side of his heart since he was a child but always stuffed down until now. 

“Sometimes I look at you, and all I can think about is how much I despise you.” His breath shuddered. He took another, the words burning on his tongue to get out. He couldn’t stop this now he’d begun. “If you had just waited for Mother, if you had just _waited_. But you did not wait. Maybe it was because I was not enough, was not a good enough son for you, was not the kind of child you had imagined when you dreamed of children. Maybe I was too difficult, too unusual, too stubborn.” He let out a long breath through his nose, a tightness coiled in his throat, turning his words rough and thick. “The reason does not matter now. The deed is long done. But sometimes I think I hate you as much as I hate Indis.”

Finwë covered his face with his hands, back hunching, and he folded forward in the chair until his face almost hit his knees. He did not cry out, did not moan with the agony in his soul; his back did not shake with the power of his tears because he did not shed any. Only the heaviness of his breathing filled the silence between them. 

Fëanor looked away. He stared into the fire, feeling a numbness inside him he’d never known before. 

“I will not regret wedding Indis. Not even for you, Fëanor.” 

The numbness shattered with his father’s words. Fury surged up, but a tangle of other emotions as well, because his mother was dead, dead, dead, because of that marriage, the marriage he’d resented all his life, but Fingolfin would never have existed without it. And once upon a time Fëanor had loved a little boy named Fingolfin with eyes the clear blue of the sky and a special smile reserved for his big brother, and his big brother only.

“But I do regret how poorly I handled your grief as I child. I should have been more patient, more understanding. I…I couldn’t because too much of me had grown bitter against Míriel. I blamed her for leaving us. I couldn’t understand why she would not even _try_ to return, not even for you. I didn’t want to hear she was sick, I wanted her back. I wanted everything back to the way it once was and all this pain over with.” 

Fëanor only looked at his father. Finwë met his eyes, reaching a hand out to him. Fëanor almost pulled away from the touch, but as much as a part of him loathed his father, another part longed for him. 

Finwë’s hand trembled on Fëanor’s skin, fingers slipping into the gap between Fëanor’s relaxed thumb and curled fingers. “But what I regret most is trying to silence you, trying to snuff out the passions within you that made you you. I should have let you shout whatever you liked about the Valar from the rooftops.”

Fëanor looked down at their joined hands. “Then why did you continue to support the Valar’s authority for so long?”

Finwë’s fingers tightened about his. “Because I _had_ to.” Fëanor’s eyes rose to his father’s anguished ones. “To acknowledge that the Valar could be wrong, that their wisdom was not absolute, that Valinor wasn’t as close to perfection as we could achieve, would be…I .. _I_ led our people here. It was _my_ words that persuaded thousands to join me in search of the light. The laws you spoke so eloquently against from the beginning were ones _I_ allowed to snap about my people’s necks. And it…it was _my_ decision to consult the Valar over Míriel that led…that led to her death and eternal imprisonment in Mandos. Me, Fëanor, it was me who did this to our people, to _you_.”

Fëanor’s free hand came to close over the top of his father’s holding his. “No one blames you for leading the Noldor to Valinor, Father. I do not. You did not know what it would be like. You tried to do what you thought was right for your people. Who can blame you for not seeing through the Valar’s fair faces and benevolent masks when it took all of us hundreds of years to unravel their true natures and see them for the jailers they are?” 

Fëanor paused, watching some of the terrible guilt ease from his father’s eyes. “As for Mother’s fate, in the end it was the Valar who cast the judgment, and they who hold her spirit still. You did not ask them to imprison her soul. They could have released her _and_ allowed your marriage to be dissolved –the Stature already set a new precedent, what was one more?”

“Fëanor, my son.” Finwë’s hand rose to touch Fëanor’s cheek. “Do not forgive me for your mother. I do not forgive myself for the hurt I inflicted upon you.”

Fëanor had not said he held Finwë guiltless in his mother’s fate, but he held words casting blame back. He had loosed the ones built up for years, and would not hurt his father again with needless ones. 

A silence fell between them, but it was nothing like the last. They held each other’s hands as they once had, when Fëanor was a child, and Finwë gently stroked Fëanor’s hair as Fëanor did for his own sons. 

The chasm that had seemed insurmountable only moments before now lay as nothing between them. Fëanor had not felt this closeness with his father since childhood. He laid his head down upon his father’s shoulder, indulging himself in the feeling of being loved. All the scars of fear his father had had a part in inflicting upon him rested quiet with the balm of his father’s hand stroking love through his hair.

*

The Noldor set out for Valmar and the Festival of Mirth. It took months of planning and organizing leading up to the festival. Finwë had done this every year, and Fingolfin had his advisors to look to for council, but the festivals were a test of his skills as a leader. He had had many such tests during the last five years.

The Noldor trickled into Valmar in organized pockets: the village of Dancing Willows, the town of Crossing Hammers that had sprung up about the gold mines in the North, the House of the Pillar’s household up from Tirion, the Trader’s distinct from the city, and so on. 

Fingolfin rode into Valmar at the head of the House of the Star in the place his father had once ridden. His children, wife, and mother rode beside him, Finarfin’s family behind with Irimë and her son Glorfindel. 

He set up his tent with their House’s heraldry flapping from the central pole in the lands reserved for the Noldor since the first Festival of Mirth. The Vanyar’s sections were already packed with white tents, and the Teleri’s dotted with some hundred (few of the Sea-elves bothered with the Valar’s grand celebrations).

Fingolfin’s belly did not unknot throughout the coming week. He distracted himself with his duties, settling his people in, organizing the food distributions, and sitting in judgment over the quarrels his lords brought before him (usually over something petty that made him want to pinch the bridge of his nose over). He never for a moment forgot Fëanor would be arriving on the festival’s high day.

He hadn’t seen Fëanor in five years. He only had scraps of news out of Foremost by way of his father’s letters and what Fingon relayed from visits to Maedhros, but Fingolfin could not ask Fingon to describe exactly what Fëanor looked like under the Northern stars, and if he smelt different up there where snow blanketed the earth in the winter season. 

If the Valar asked for Fingolfin’s words of pardon, he would give them. He would seek Fëanor out and give them regardless of the Valar’s judgment. Not that he allowed himself to hope for…anything. But he’d _never_ sought Fëanor’s banishment. 

Fingolfin may not be able to like Fëanor as a person (Fëanor had twisted that knife in his gut too many times. Fëanor was arrogant, loud, opinionated, paranoid, and beautiful, so beautiful), but Fingolfin wanted him _back_. 

If Fingolfin took special care with his appearance on the high day of the festival…well. He threaded diamonds and sapphires through his braids, and set a silver circlet upon his brow. He did not wear his –Father’s—crown. Fëanor would not look at him if all he could see was Melkor’s lies come to fruition. 

Fingolfin wore a midnight-blue tunic with white gems glittering like stars sown into twisting embroidery designs upon the upper chest. He slipped on his favorite rings, clasped silver bracelets about his wrists, and hung a simple, but exquisite, necklace of the same white gem as his tunic about his throat. The white gem came to rest in the hollow of his throat where his collar parted enough to show just a hint of collarbone. 

Fingolfin was examining his appearance in a hand mirror when Fingon entered the tent. 

Fingon paused, brow rising when he caught sight of his father. “My.”

Fingolfin lowered the mirror, tossing it on his bed. He scooped his braids off his chest, throwing them over the blades of his shoulders. “Are you ready?” 

Fingon looked nicely put together himself in his roguish way, as if afraid he’d ruin his image if it looked like he’d spent more than five minutes on his appearance. But he had braided golden ribbons through his hair. He’d taken to that style since his last trip to Foremost. Apparently Maedhros had braided them in as a joke, and Fingon had taken a liking to the look.

“Galadriel’s going to die of envy when she sees you. She’s quite determined to be the handsomest person in attendance tonight. She’s combed her hair until it blinds!” Fingon laughed. “She has some sort of wager with Finrod over who can look prettier. But you, Father, will put them both to shame,” Fingon grinned as he strung his arm through Fingolfin’s, and they headed for the tent’s entrance.

“Save the flattery for your ladies, Fingon, or I will start thinking you have devious designs on me.”

Fingon laughed, bumping shoulders. “It’s been too long since I heard you make a joke. What’s put you in such a good mood? You’ve been walking about with a fearsome scowl since _you know what_.” Fingon turned a subject that had become nearly a taboo during the last five years into a tease between them, as if Fingon and Fingolfin were in on some grand conspiracy they had to keep hush-hush by not even naming. Fingolfin adored his son.

“This might all be over tonight.” Fingolfin squeezed Fingon’s hands. “Maedhros could be home in a matter of months.”

Fingon’s smile turned wistful. “I know, but I’m trying to keep my hopes within reason –not that I’m terribly good at that. But one shouldn’t put store in the Valar. Or so I’ve heard,” he ended with a wink.

They found Turgon and his family awaiting them. Guilin played a skipping game with Idril. Little Idril had a pretty pink dress on that clashed rather unfavorably with her gold-red hair, but she’d begged Elenwë into letting her wear it. 

“Have you seen your sister?” Fingolfin asked of Turgon. Fingon never kept track of Aredhel, but Turgon was bound to know.

Turgon’s mouth pinched. “She is off with her newest… _friend_.” 

Fingolfin didn’t care to wonder who her lover was this time. They never lasted. He would not force her to be someone she was not, but it was so hard not to interfere when she found no happiness in life. If only she would stop shrugging off his attempts to hold her like his love were an irritating second skin. 

She didn’t pause in the embrace of his love long enough to let it catch her, as if terrified it contained hidden bindings. She kept her eyes fastened on a distant horizon, running over the bodies of lovers, fleeing something he did not understand, towards an undefined concept of freedom. Maybe she’d know what she raced towards when she found it, but he feared Aredhel knew herself as little as he knew how to reach that elusive, fleet-footed woman inside. But she never stopped searching, never stopped fighting, never bowed down to the dark following after her no matter how swift she ran, for she carried it inside her mind.

“Are Irimë and Glorfindel joining us?” Fingolfin held out his hand for Guilin, and his grandson bounced over to him, snatching up Fingolfin’s hand to hold in both his small ones. 

“I have not seen her.” Turgon said just as Irimë rounded the nearest tent, her son following. Indis walked beside her.

“Mother,” Fingolfin inclined his head formally.

Indis greeted him with a kiss on the cheek. “My son.” She cast her eye about. “Where is your bother?”

“Finarfin informed me he would walk up with his wife’s people, and their children will surely join the Teleri as well.”

Fingolfin settled his hand on the back of Guilin’s skull, drawing the child’s eyes. “Would you like to walk with your cousin Glorfindel?”

“Yes, Papa,” Guilin beamed.

“Go asked him then,” Fingolfin sent his grandson over. Glorfindel looked so solemn over there. He needed a smile, and Guilin would give him one. 

“You look very nice tonight, Glorfindel.” Glorfindel’s eyes lifted at the complement. Fingolfin smiled for him.

Glorfindel stared back, face blank. Fingolfin’s jaw tightened. He had not acknowledged Irimë’s presence, nor would he. He was still furious with her over their latest argument over the way she raised her son. 

She hid much, a master of masks herself, but the wrongness in her relationship with her son bled through the perfume she tried to spray over the stench. 

“Come over here, child. Walk with me.” Fingolfin held out his hand.

“He walks with me.” Irimë hand reached out to cage her son’s shoulder.

Fingolfin cut her a slicing glance. “I am the Head of this family with Father’s absence. Send your son to me. Now.”

Irimë’s mouth pinched tight, but she released her hold on the boy’s shoulders. 

Fingolfin resolved that things would be different when they returned to Tirion. He’d use his authority as Head of the Family to make it so. He’d remove Glorfindel from Irimë’s care if it came to that. He’d tried the path of council, but Irimë would not be swayed by anything but strong authority it seemed. Either way, he would put a stop to whatever she was doing to steal the boy’s smiles.

When they reached the thick of the merriment, Fingolfin sent Glorfindel off to play with Guilin and carried out his rounds through the lords and ladies, dancing the dance, playing the game. Spirits were relaxed tonight, and the steps unusually light as he encountered some of the lords and ladies he clashed with the most but managed to come away from without a headache.

The Trees had passed into the first stages of their Mingling when Fëanor arrived and was led to the throne of Manwë. Fingolfin only caught a glimpse of him as the Maia leading Fëanor brought him through the crowd, Elves stepping back to let them pass, but Fingolfin followed Fëanor’s path until they stood together before the Valar.

Fëanor wore no ornament of any kind, not even a single ring, and his clothes were only a little higher quality them some of the ones Fingolfin had seen covered in soot from a forge. It was such a Fëanor thing to do: resist the authority over him to the last, to the very smallest degree. Some might call it petty, Fingolfin thought it resourceful. Fëanor had few weapons to fight back against the Valar’s power with; his passive-aggressive refusal to honor the Valar’s festival with festive attire was one of them.

Fingolfin stepped forward. Fëanor had been looking at Manwë, mouth a hard line, but at Fingolfin’s movement he flicked a glance over. Fëanor’s eyes were the most beautiful thing on this Earth. The way Fëanor raised an arrogant brow at Fingolfin still set Fingolfin’s teeth on edge; he read Fëanor’s disinterest in anything he had to say in that one slight of brow.

Fingolfin held out his hand regardless, pitching his voice strong and carrying as he closed the distance to Fëanor. “As I promised, I do now. I release you and remember no grievance.”

Slowly, his eyes raking over Fingolfin’s face, Fëanor’s hand lifted to grip Fingolfin’s back. Fingolfin had braced himself for the touch of his skin upon Fëanor’s, but he could not stop his lips from parting. Fëanor did not speak, but his eyes…his eyes were fixed on Fingolfin’s face, not flickering away for a moment. 

Fëanor found him interesting enough to look at. And more, so much more: there was no scorn in that gaze. Fëanor found him _worth_ looking at. 

“Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart will I be. You shall lead and I will follow. May no new grief divide us.” Fingolfin’s voice rang out, a clear note as he made his pledge.

Fëanor’s mouth curled up on its right side in something close to a smirk. “I hear you. So be it.” 

The peak of the Mingling washed over them in that moment, setting the air dancing with silver and golden light. The Trees lay at Fëanor’s back, and the light haloed him, catching in his hair and setting it glistening like gold and silver spiderwebs. 

Fëanor hadn’t released Fingolfin’s hand. Indeed, his fingers tightened upon it as his eyes flew over Fingolfin’s face; his eyes, his mouth, his jewel-adorned hair.

And then the light went out. Someone screamed. There was a moment of utter darkness in which Fingolfin’s awareness narrowed down to the heat of his hand in Fëanor’s, the only point of reality in a sea of inky night. 

“Fëanor!” Fingolfin reached out, free hand rushing for Fëanor’s body, connecting with his brother’s hair. It slipped through his fingers smoother than notes spilling off Maglor’s lips. 

The absolute darkness passed after only a few heartbeats, but the world did not set itself to right. The only light in the world came from the Ainur’s shinning figures and the lesser glow of the gathered Elves.

“There are shadows, shadows moving in the dark! Look, there, in the valley! Tirion is overrun!” 

Fingolfin’s eyes snapped down to the city. It looked like a tidal wave, no tornado of darkness ravaging the city. No more voices cried out, even to scream. They all watched in horror as the storm of darkness covered all the land. 

A wailing drifted down the wind, distant, but piercing to the heart. Fingolfin had never heard anything like it. It came from an Elven throat, the Teleri on the coast who had not joined the festival, but there was such utter despair and terror in the sound it struck Fingolfin’s soul like a physical blow.

Fingolfin could not measure time, but it seemed days passed while they stood, transfixed with horror, before Tulkas and Oromë left with the Maiar in their service behind them, rushing into the darkness, spears raised as if they could physically pierce it’s black belly. With the Valar’s stirring, the Elves began to come back to themselves. Though the world was still dim, voices began to call out, drawing kin close, and the questions of what was happening, what was that, what should we do, started.

Fingolfin startled at a tug on his hands. He looked up, and found himself very close to Fëanor, almost within his arms. One hand still held Fëanor’s, the other wrapped in Fëanor’s hair, knuckles resting against the pale column of Fëanor’s neck.

Fëanor tugged again, seeking release, and Fingolfin stepped hastily back. Fëanor looked at him as he gathered his hair up and tossed it back over his shoulders. Fingolfin had no words for a moment such as this. But he had to have them, so he found them.

He turned away from Fëanor, and lifted up his voice. It pierced like a bell through the sea of Elves whose panic and fears were beginning to turn their voices shrill. He called for calm, using steady words to paint their situation and give purpose into their hands if he couldn’t give explanations. He called for torches to be lit, and for the Elves to walk back to their encampments where they could find rest, food, and water until this ordeal had passed –he did not even hint that it would not. He no more knew what was happening than they, but he would do what he could to prevent a panic.

With the Elves beginning the slow process of bringing themselves to order, Fingolfin turned back to Fëanor. He found his brother staring back at him. There was a strange look in his eyes.

His own commanding voice echoed in his ears again. He had taken charge of the situation without thinking to consult Fëanor, the one who the organization of their people naturally fell to in Father’s absence. And Fingolfin had done in mere moments after promising to follow Fëanor’s lead, though they had been the most earth-shattering moments of their lives. Yet it was not anger Fingolfin read in Fëanor’s eyes –that he knew well. Whatever it was, he could not decipher it. He didn’t know what to make of Fëanor’s silence, and his eyes upon him, not turning away. Fëanor still stood there, not walking away.

Fëanor’s mouth tipped up in a smile (a smile for _Fingolfin_ ) that was almost teasing. “You shall lead and I will follow, was it?”

“I…Fëanor…” Fingolfin sounded like a stuttering idiot, but Fëanor was _smiling at him_ , and his chest, his heart, everything felt too tight, too full, too glowing, as if he had a star caught inside him.

And what could he say anyway? His words before the Valar had been as much for Fëanor as they were not. He’d meant them, but on a personal level, just between them. He didn’t expect to suddenly find himself in a situation where he had to follow Fëanor as Fëanor led their people to…whatever end he crashed them gloriously into. Finwë was king, and it would be Finwë’s responsibility to reign in Fëanor’s more disastrous ideas.

The words had also been aimed at the Valar, and yes, all the listening Elves as well, but mostly the Valar. They were a blinder he threw up before the Valar’s eyes. Fingolfin and Fëanor’s personal problems were something they would work out together, in private, and none of the Valar’s business.

“There is room in my family’s tents for one more, if you care to join us.”

Fëanor raised a brow. “As _interesting_ as I would find sharing living space with some of your family members, I do not intend to stay.”

Fingolfin frowned. “Where are you going? You cannot think to leave the mountain with this darkness upon the land.”

“Indeed I do. I will ride North. I cannot say how far the darkness spreads, or how long it will linger. My place is with my sons, my father, and people.” 

“Fëanor, this darkness is not natural, you can see that. It does not touch us here, but I fear a malicious taint infects it. Did you not hear the Teleri’s cries? This is no mere lack of light.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed. “I will ride out regardless.” He gave his back to Fingolfin, calling back over his shoulder as he walked away. “I trust you can keep the Noldor from running into a panic on your own.”

Fingolfin didn’t know what to make of Fëanor’s words. Had that been a complement? It couldn’t be, not from Fëanor’s lips.

“Fëanor, son of Finwë, stay your leave taking.” Fëanor spun around at Manwë’s voice, mouth setting as he looked towards the Valar’s thrones. How nice of them to speak up now, and not while the Elves were nearly driven into a panic. “The ban upon you has not been lifted.”

Fingolfin stepped forward. “I released my brother before all. I hold no grievance against him.”

Manwë inclined his head at Fingolfin. “So you did, Fingolfin, ruling prince of the Noldor, but the twelve years of the banishment’s sentence still holds. With your release Fëanor need not fear an extension of his banishment passed the twelve-year mark.” 

Fëanor’s nostrils flared, but he bit back whatever wrathful words burning to unleash themselves. “I seek not to return to Tirion. I go North, to the fortress I have raised in my banishment to assure myself of my family and people’s safety.”

“The roads are unsafe. You must remain here until the land has been secured again.”

Fëanor’s eyes flared fire. “If I be not the Valar’s thrall, then I am free to take my leave as I chose, even if that choice puts me into the path of danger. That is my right to chose as well as the safe path.”

Manwë’s face shifted, just a flicker, but there had been anger there. “An Elf not under the Valar’s judgment may indeed go and come as they please, though the Valar advise against venturing out in this dark hour, but you are not such a blameless one. The gates are barred again you, Fëanor, son of Finwë. Here you will remain until such a time as the Valar give you leave to pass safely from our realm.”

Fingolfin felt a noose tightening about his throat, and he was not even the one so constrained. He looked into Fëanor’s face and saw naked rage, but the worst was the edge of powerlessness in his eyes, like a trapped animal clawing against its cage to get free as it was slowing crushed to death. 

Fëanor was not a spirit ever meant to be restrained. No noose should ever be fit about fire’s neck. To attempt to control fire would be like forbidding fire air. The fire would be snuffed out before if bowed to the hand of the tamer.

Fëanor swept from the ring of the Valar’s thrones (seeming to close in about them) like the blast of hot air off a raging flame. Fingolfin did not follow him. Fëanor would not have welcomed anyone’s company, certainly not Fingolfin’s. Fingolfin had his duties as the ruling prince of their people regardless, he could not go chasing off after Fëanor even if his brother would have wanted him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A double update! Enjoy!

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 25

Fëanor hated idleness. Unfortunately everything that had once occupied his hands had been stripped from them when he’d been caged on this mountain. Here there was no forge, no lands to explore, no sons to care for, or people’s needs to listen to and meet. 

He was stuck on a mountain with a people who he’d long since stopped considering _his_ in the way he thought of his own (not that he would say as much aloud; he was not a fool, and did not speak without any regard to consequences whatever might be said about him). These Noldor were Fingolfin’s Noldor. They were the blind. Fëanor did not name them a loss. 

He did not need to be loved by all. He only wanted the sighted, the hands reaching towards freedom and greatness beside his, the fierce and the bold, those who he could respect.

It had been two days since he’d been trapped here, and he was going mad. It wasn’t just the purposeless and idleness facing him, it was the ignorance. He did not know how his sons fared. He did not know if the darkness had touched them in the North, if they had cried out for him, needing their father when he was not there, if their voices had risen in despair as the Teleri’s had when the darkness swallowed them….

He would go mad if he dwelt on such fears. He would go _mad_.

He resolved the issue of his idealness himself; he would hardly go begging Fingolfin to assign him some duties for all Fingolfin had caught his attention.

Fingolfin had sounded like Finwë when he called all the Elves to order when the Valar sat like useless lumps on their thrones. No, Fingolfin had sounded _more_ than Finwë ever had. 

Fëanor had looked into Fingolfin’s face and seen something he’d thought long burnt away. He’d seen that potential for greatness he’d been drawn to long ago in a child’s eager mind and true-seeing eyes. He’d seen the memory of a little boy Fëanor thought special, different from all the rest, who’d grown into a man Fëanor had dismissed, but perhaps, just maybe, dismissed without understanding the man beneath the mask of perfection.

But for everything he thought (hoped) Fingolfin might still be, Fëanor would not seek him out like an appetence his master.

First, Fëanor organized the craftsmen amongst these Noldor, and set them to building make-shift forges with the supplies at hand, roping in the help of the stonemasons and carpenters. The finished workplace was open-aired, which wasn’t the problem; the problem was the all-together inferior tools. But Fëanor was a master at his craft, and not even an inferior tool could defeat him. 

With what he had, he set about crafting the Lamps named after him. The Noldor took them eagerly from his anvil, collecting them and stringing them up between the tent rows until their encampment again knew light in every corner. The labor was no simple one, nor quick, but Fëanor had days that slipped into weeks in which the gates stayed barred to him and the Valar silent and voiceless as stones upon their thrones. 

Besides his labor for light, he set the engineers the task of building a more sustainable method of ensuring easily accessible and plentiful water for the encampment. The current primitive mode of transporting in trough-fulls from the neighboring water sources was not fit for a semi-permanent encampment of this size.

When the stonemasons and other craftsmen had seen the engineers’ plans set into fruition, Fëanor set them to another duty, and then the next, joining them when they couldn’t solve the problems between themselves, but coming ever back to his forge and the making of light, for that was what they needed and craved most.

The darkness did not lift, but whatever had inhabited it and twisted its touch into a poison that corroded hearts and minds had passed. Fingolfin sent any with skill in farming out to harvest what they could salvage of the crops. The Noldor undertook a great labor to preserve as much of the food as they were able, commoner and lord alike dirtying their hands for the survival of their people. And still the Valar did not speak. 

The Noldor did not return to Tirion. They did not yet know what it was that had crawled into their land, and were afraid to leave the Valar’s mountain for long. They took comfort from the encampment of their people, stretching out for miles and miles of tents filling the belly of the land, huddled together, taking strength from the closeness of their kin and fellow Elves.

The Eldar had returned to the existence the Elves had known at Cuiviénen where the Dark Rider hunted them in dark lands lit only by starlight.

Fëanor did not seek Fingolfin out for purpose, he found that himself, but he did come into Fingolfin’s company. It didn’t take him long to remember why he disliked Fingolfin.

The first time Fëanor was not called to the gathering of lords and Guild Heads may have been an oversight, a mere habit of Fingolfin’s ruling the Noldor the last five years. Fingolfin had looked a little flustered when Fëanor showed up after being passed over, the Head of the blacksmith’s Guild having informed him of the gathering. Fingolfin had even apologized –the way a politician apologizes.

Fëanor might have let it go, but Fingolfin was as much of a hypocrite and politician as ever. You will lead and I will follow? Fëanor found no evidence of that. There could be no doubt who the ruling prince was, and it was not Fëanor. 

Fëanor did not beg for his birthright, he did not even stand up and demand it as all the lords’ eyes nodded along to Fingolfin’s commands and not his own; that would have been like a spoilt child throwing a tantrum. These were not Fëanor’s people, and but for the craftsmen he’d worked beside and selected as the ones he could respect and be respected by (who would no doubt be returning North with him, to now be number amongst his own followers) Fëanor didn’t care for these Noldor. 

That didn’t change the fact Fingolfin should have _given_ Fëanor the rule of the Noldor, and acknowledged it as Fëanor’s due right as Finwë’s firstborn. Fingolfin did nothing of the kind. He consulted Fëanor only on matters dealing with the craftsman guilds, and showed Fëanor through his actions that the words he’d spoken before the Valar’s thrones had been nothing but well-played propaganda.

*

Another gathering of the lords and Guild Heads wound down, and Fingolfin resisted the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose. One would think, when faced with a catastrophe as the Noldor, as all Valinor, faced now, they would put aside petty grudges and nursed slighted from _three centuries_ ago and deflate their egos long enough for the Noldor to pull through this, but his lords were as ambitious as ever, and an Elf’s memory long and not without pettiness.

Fingolfin’s eyes caught on Fëanor’s strong back as his brother cut an impatient step towards the tent’s entrance. His lungs longed to call out to Fëanor and ask him to wait a moment, but that was the sort of action he’d take with one of his lords, not his brother who was crown prince and yet banished. 

Fëanor’s place in these councils was an uncomfortable one for Fingolfin. Fingolfin sat at the head of the table, as was his place as ruling prince, but should he place Fëanor at his right hand, across from him, or with the Guild Heads? Fingolfin had not dared to presume, and left Fëanor to seat himself. Fëanor chose to sit among the Guild Heads, but he looked _wrong_ seated among them, and rarely offered his opinion during the councils (though he must have had an opinion on everything discussed and believe it the only right one).

Fingolfin had longed to speak with Fëanor –alone—since the darkening of the land almost a month ago now, but there was so much to accomplish, so many who leaned on him and consumed his time, and Fëanor had certainly submerged himself in his own work. The moment had just never come.

Fingolfin should mingle a while yet with his lords and the Guild Heads. It was the proper thing to do; what his father would do. But Fëanor’s back disappeared behind the dropped tent flap and Fingolfin just could not let him slip away again. He hurriedly excused himself from the lord currently demanding his attention, and followed the path of Fëanor’s back out of the tent.

“Fëanor!” Fingolfin quickened his pace as his brother paused at his call, turning with a raised brow and the air of impatient expectancy. “A moment of your time, if you would.”

“What is it?” Fëanor crossed his arms over his chest, widening his stance, set to have this conversation right here between the tents.

Fingolfin’s stared at Fëanor a moment as he realized he had no real purpose for this conversation, he’d just wanted Fëanor to stay. He recovered himself and bid for time to think of something. “If you would accompany me to my tent, I believe what I would say is not for the ears of passersby.”

Fëanor’s eyes narrowed, but his heels snapped around as he led the way to Fingolfin’s tent as much as someone who did not know the way could lead, but as it was Fëanor, it was most defiantly leading.

Fëanor ducked into Fingolfin’s tent when they reached it without waiting for Fingolfin to lead as would have been polite when entering another’s tent. Fingolfin followed him in and found Fëanor already pacing a tight circle, by-stepping the section of furs laid out for seating. At least Fëanor did not crush the dried mud on his boots into the furs. Fingolfin should be thankful for small curtsies. In truth, he found Fëanor’s utter lack of propriety more amusing then aggravating, and not the least surprising.

“Well?” Fëanor paused in his pacing to examine a bracelet Fingolfin had left out on a table. He’d left the lid on the inlaid box of jewelry he’d brought up from Tirion for the festival open as well. Fëanor’s fingers helped themselves to these too, seeming to have forgotten all about his question in his scrutiny of the craftsmanship. 

His fingers lingered over a hair clasp of silver crafted into the delicate shape of a crane in flight. The bird’s wings were set with gems so tinny the light slid off the rows of them like a dewdrop’s glistening path. Fëanor turned, the exquisite piece in his hands. His brows furrowed, but it was not a frown, more thoughtfulness. “I made this for you.”

Fingolfin swallowed. “Yes, for my Coming of Age. You sent it along from Aulë’s forge. You did not come yourself, of course. I know it must have been a bother that Father asked you to give me something—” 

“He did not.”

Oh.

Fëanor laid the clasp back into the velvet belly of the box. His voice dropped soft into the silence, “You wished to speak to me about something?”

Yes. No. He wished to speak about anything with Fëanor. 

He asked what he’d wanted to hear the answer to but Fëanor had held his silence at every council meeting, keeping his own council. “What are your intentions for after the Valar release you and you have ensured your sons and Father’s safety?”

Fëanor’s mouth twisted without humor. “Am I not banished for another seven years?”

Fingolfin picked his words with care. “That is true, but the world has changed.”

Fëanor’s sliced him a glance, cutting. “I do not play games. Say what you would ask in full or not at all.”

Fingolfin’s eyes narrowed, but he spoke with more plainness. “Do our people not need their king in times such as these? Yet Father will not return to Tirion without you. So what will you do, Fëanor, because I cannot see you running back to the North and abiding there.”

Fëanor’s eyes met his, full of that beautiful fire that shot thrills through Fingolfin’s body. “We have reached the tipping point as a people. The Valar have proved themselves unable to protect us in these lands, which has been one of the fiercest arguments for remaining under the Valar’s heavy-hands. The Elves left the lands of their inheritance for the promise of Light, but the light is dead.”

“So what will you do?” Fingolfin stared into all the corners of his brother’s impassioned face, voice coming out with a breathlessness he prayed Fëanor had not caught.

But Fëanor had always been more than a little self-absorbed, and his mind was all for his grand plans. “The time has come to _seize_ our freedom for ourselves.”

Fingolfin’s heart skipped a beat. “You speak of open rebellion.” Fëanor raised his chin. “And if the Valar try to stop the Noldor from leaving?”

“Then we show them we are not witless thralls.”

“You propose _war_. Fëanor, see reason—”

Fëanor’s lips curled in a snarl. “You would have us remain in these chains? You would make yourself the master of thralls in truth?”

“I would have you employ logic like I am—”

“You put on blinders! Willful ignorance! There is nothing more dangerous in the world.” Fëanor’s feet ate up a step between them, frame vibrating with his roused fury.

“I am not blind!” Fingolfin matched the step forward. “I see as well as you. I am disturbed by the Valar’s handling of you, for one, not to mention the way they have set themselves up as our ‘superiors.’”

“But you _say_ nothing!” Fëanor closed the distance between them until they met eye-to-eye, close enough their eyes flew over each other’s faces, breaths heating the air between them as Fingolfin’s lungs filled with Fëanor’s scent. “You keep your silence, you play your games of politics and power when each year our people wither a little more! By your silence you condone the Valar!”

“I do not!” Fingolfin’s voice crashed over all masks, whipping out in a shout the brother of Fëanor’s.

“Then stand up and _say_ something!” Fëanor’s voice rang in a sudden silence, breaths hot and heavy against Fingolfin’s skin, made sensitive by all the years of longing to have Fëanor this close, closer, closer.

But it wasn’t as simple as Fëanor’s words implied. Their people needed stability, strength, steadfastness. Fëanor, their crown prince, had ever chosen what was best for himself, never once picking up the burdens and duties that had come with his birth. Fingolfin didn’t have the luxury of the revolutionary’s path because Fëanor had already taken it up. He had to tread the long, toiling one of a leader of a nation. Fingolfin accepted his brother’s burdens and duties alike without bitterness, for he had found fulfillment, even enjoyment, within them; but they were a heavy weight regardless, and he was bound to them.

To stand up and speak out against the Valar would be to share Fëanor’s fate of banishment, for it had not been a sword drawn but a voice shouted in a square that had led to Fëanor’s banishment. And then what would become of their people? What would become of Fingolfin’s children? He would not do as his father had and cast the weight of a crown upon Fingon’s head. Fingon, his wonderful boy who he adored, was not a head ready for its weight. Perhaps their people would weather the loss of another prince well enough, but Fingolfin’s children would not, and Fingolfin would always choose them first. Always.

Fingolfin had no words to answer with. His mouth had parted, tongue struggling, a little sound without the fullness of words coming up his throat.

Fëanor’s face mixed between exasperation and disappointment, mouth curling up into something not quite a sneer. He dismissed Fingolfin with a noise of disgust, head giving a sharp jerk as he turned away. 

“It is not that simple, Fëanor.” Fingolfin’s mouth found words to loose at Fëanor’s back, but they were weak and Fingolfin knew it. 

Fëanor didn’t pause to look back, and Fingolfin did not try to call him back with words that would have laid the root of his silence bare, because Fëanor would not accept it even if he had. Fëanor had chosen to walk with boldness, over necks, egos, and propriety all his life. He scorned the dance of light feet stepping with caution, eyes on a goal tucked under the cover of skin, muscle, and ribs, deep, deep in the heart, and hands clasped about the hands of the loved ones to be kept close so they were not lost in the fine webs of the game. It was not that Fëanor did not understand walking softly; it was that he held it in contempt.

*

Fëanor stood upon the brink. A ring of enemies closed in around him. The darkness churned like beasts beneath the sea over the land. Because of his vision long ago foretelling this very hour, he had crafted the Silmarils. He poured himself into them for his sons, his people, himself, not the Valar who now made designs upon them, lusting after the last pure source of the Flame Imperishable, the Secret Fire Ilúvatar had entrusted to the Valar in its purest form and which Yavanna had lit the Two Trees with. The same fire which dwelt within the chests of each of Ilúvatar’s children, uncapturable, beyond the grasp of a Vala’s envious hands.

Into this moment arrived his sons out of the North. It had taken them weeks to cover the distance, for they had been forced to come on foot as the horses had been driven mad by the Darkness. They’d run through the darkness with the tidings that shattered Fëanor’s heart.

Maedhros’ voice struck the blow that felled Fëanor to his knees: his father had been murdered, slain, dead, dead, dead.

His hands rose to his breaking heart, fisting his tunic as his knees hit the stones. Not Father. He could not breathe. He could not breathe! 

(Finwë’s hand reaching out to take his where Fëanor sat above him, mounted on the horse. This would be the last time he saw his father, the last time his father spoke to him, the last time his father’s hand held his. “Have patience with your brother, Fëanor. Fingolfin is not perfect, but deep down I believe he still loves you. I am confident he will forgive all when the time comes, and we will go home. Things will be different this time, I promise.” Finwë brought Fëanor’s hand up to kiss. “I love you.”)

Not his father who had been there from the beginning, who had held him when he wept though all the raging grief of Mother’s leaving. Not his father who had been as mother and father to him and had once been all Fëanor had to call his. Not his father who had put his fingers in Fëanor’s hair and soothed the fears, calmed all the wrath and helplessness Fëanor harbored against the Valar during those long years in the North. Not his father who Fëanor would slay himself to have back.

Fëanor’s throat swelled closed on agony. He could not breathe through the crush of this grief, a mountain pressing down upon him clouding all thought but the pain, the terrible, terrible pain. There was a hole cut into his side where his father had been ripped out, and he was bleeding, bleeding, bleeding.

He laid spread out as one slain upon the stones. The shapes of the Valar encircled him like the hunched shoulders of vultures. Maedhros’ voice told on and on of the slaying of Finwë, having to repeat the moment of death again and again until his voice broke and the Valar were satisfied with the telling. 

The Valar conspired to keep his sons from him. They would steal them like their brother had stolen Father. They sought to keep his sons from him. Did they not even now delay his Maedhros’ arms from finding him? These arms he hungered for were so far away, kept from him by the demands of the Valar. Did they not occupy his Curufin’s eyes with their badgering, their dallying tactics, to leave Fëanor’s heart groaning upon the stones?

His belly clenched on the physical pain of this terror. His sons could be ripped away as easily as his father had been. His sons would have tried to reach him where his knees had dropped him into the stones, but they were not aware of him, for the Valar had blocked the sight of his smote body from their eyes. 

Fëanor was beset in a ring of enemies, encircled by the Valar’s thrones and their Maiar guards, stealing his sons from him. His sons who he _needed_ with the innermost fibers of his being but were kept from by the false gods’ voices striking like iron upon iron. Because the Valar understood nothing, _nothing_ , and their hearts were stones within their chest, faces apathetic as he moaned in the agony of his soul at their feet.

These false gods who kept his sons so easily from him, holding them back as their dark brother must have held Father’s neck in a pitiless grip of steel as he snapped it. Fëanor could see it in his mind’s-eyes. He could see Tulkas’ hulking shape binding Maedhros’ arms to his sides from behind in an embrace the mockery of a lover’s. He could see Aulë’s hands about Curufin’s body, pressing Fëanor’s son (so like his father in appearance) flush against his chest, dragging Curufin away into some dark place of secrets and possessing. He could see Oromë’s huge hands drop like the maws of a bear upon Celegorm’s whip-lean waist, their struggles taking them to ground, for Celegorm would fight like an animal, snapping teeth sunk into necks and tearing off chunks of flesh, but Oromë would subdue him in the end, for he was Vala.

One by one his sons would fall to the power of the Valar, just as Finwë had fallen. They would be stolen from him, hustled away into the dark by greedy hands to become the playthings of gods. And Fëanor would be separated from them for the Ages of the world; their smiles, their laughter, their love, lost to him. His arms could not hold them tight enough from the god-hands stealing them away.

His eyes could not see through the fear. His lungs could not draw breath through the nightmares clogging them. He had run, run, run all his life from the fear, but it had found him now. The fears circled him like the wind, and no matter how he turned, he could not put his back to it.

His voice rose in a cry like the howl of an animal faced with the slaughtered body of its infant. His sons would be stolen from him. Gone, gone, gone. Like Father was gone. Like Mother was gone. He could open his skin, but he could never cut the ancient fears rooted in him out. The fears had broken free of his leash, running loose and destructive under his skin. They turned their fangs upon his vulnerable mind, and devoured him.


	26. Chapter 26

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 26

Those moments before the Valar’s throne with their hands inside each other’s and Fëanor’s mouth turning up to give him a smile must have been a dream. It couldn’t have existed within the bounds of this world, or maybe such earth-shattering moments as they had lived through generated ones of unlikely companionship. Whatever the case, what they had shared had long passed to make room for the return of the way things had always been between them. 

Fingolfin had nearly punched his arrogant, obnoxious, idiotic brother in the face. He wished he had. That Oath was a new height of reckless endangerment even for Fëanor. Fingolfin had stood silent before its taking, held as captive by Fëanor’s speech, his passion, his grief and wrath as all the rest. 

Fëanor was the power of the sea: fell, mighty beyond the reach of mind, wild, fierce, deadly, and beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. Fëanor shone like a star dropped into their midst, more perfect and breathtaking than the moment the world washed silver and gold in a height of a Mingling. Fëanor was a force of nature; terrible in his beauty, and just as unstoppable. 

Fingolfin’s heart burned for vengeance (had he too not lost a father?), and while he picked his words with care, he no more trusted the Valar then Fëanor. Once, he had thought them incompetent in their dealings with the Eldar, but no longer. They would be their masters if they could; the masters of pretty playthings bowing and scraping before them. 

Fëanor had not been the only son of Finwë to lose his father (though, as usual, Fëanor’s display of grief had overshadowed Fingolfin and Finarfin’s). While Fëanor had lost himself in the wilds and grief-madness, Fingolfin had had to straighten his spine and lead their people. 

They knew the malicious mind behind the Darkness now, and had no guarantee from the Valar that Melk—Morgoth would not strike again. The Noldor had not tolerated the thought of dwelling longer upon the Valar’s mountain. The words Fëanor had cried out, fresh from the cut of grief, rung in their ears. Fëanor had cursed Manwë, and drawn the Valar’s kinship with Morgoth back into the light. 

The Noldor had wanted away, their hearts disturbed and fearful, and Fingolfin had been the one to lead them back into their darkened city. While Fëanor’s sons searched for their father in the wilds, Fingolfin swallowed his own grief down and organized the Fëanorion Lamps to be strung through the streets, the gathered food to be taken to stores to be rationed (there was no word out of Valmar on how the Elves would grow food without light), hunting parties to be sent out to gather meat to dry and salt before the animals starved to death, and always, always, a mask of strength and confidence to be worn as he walked through the city streets to ensure his people that their prince stood strong and unbowed by fear.

He’d sat with strength upon the seat of rule in Tirion as he had had to. He kept his people’s minds occupied on survival, holding the fears and doubts upon a tight leash. He’d stood before his people again and again to assure them that they were not alone. 

He did not have to squash the voices bussing like gnats, biting into ears as they passed from neighbor to neighbor, speaking criticism of Prince Fëanor, because others had silenced them. The voices noted Fëanor’s absence, and said Fëanor should have toughened his skin years ago so this blow might not have struck so deeply; they blamed the ‘indulgence’ Fëanor received at Míriel’s death for his current ‘weakness’. Fëanor’s sons silenced the voices. The first person dimwitted enough to spread their slander about in the hearing of Fëanor’s sons, saying that Fëanor should hardened his heart and not make such a ‘display’ of his grief, had taken a fist to the jaw curtsy of Caranthir.

Fingolfin should resent Fëanor for the way he’d swept back into the city like a savior to address the people Fingolfin had been caring for for _months_ while Fëanor had been lost in his grief, but he could not. He’d looked into Fëanor’s eyes and seen so much pain he staggered with it. But he saw the edges of madness there too. A madness that had led Fëanor into swearing an unbreakable Oath, calling upon Ilúvatar himself as witness, and dragging the sons Fëanor would die for into this madness with him.

Fingolfin followed Fëanor into the palace from the Great Square, intent on confronting him. Finarfin had held them back from coming to blows in the Great Square with his soft but powerful words. Fëanor had gotten his way and the preparations for departure had begun, but Fingolfin _was not_ finished with him.

Fëanor’s sons ringed their father like a shield between him and the world. They did not give Fingolfin pause, even with some of their hands falling to their swords at his approach, eyes as dark and fey as their father’s.

“Fëanor, I’d like a word. In private.”

Fëanor raised a brow, eyes meeting Fingolfin’s, but there was something…frayed about the edges of him. His eyes burned and burned, but the fire was not a clean burn as it once had been. The madness of their father’s death rode close to surface, not defeated.

“Father!” 

Fingolfin turned to find Fingon running up, eyes swinging between the Fëanorions and Fingolfin. Fingon’s eyes lingered on Maedhros, searching his friend’s face. There was a coolness in the look Maedhros returned to Fingon that had Fingolfin feeling like the ground he stood on was ravaged by an earthquake. Maedhros and Fingon’s friendship had been as constant as the Earth’s turning. 

In one thing Finarfin had spoken true: they should not allow Morgoth to have the ultimate victory by letting their vengeance and grief come between them. 

Fingolfin laid a hand on Fingon’s shoulder. There had been times he’d wished Maedhros far from his son. There had been times over those years before Fëanor’s banishment when the line drawn in the sand had been cut sharp as a sword’s blade, and Maedhros stood against them, shoulder squared to Fëanor’s. There had been times he’d looked at Maedhros and seen nothing but a son of Fëanor fanatically loyal to his father. But he had watched Fingon through the long years of the banishment and seen the ache in his heart, the dimness of his smiles, without his cousin by his side. And Fingolfin could not forget, despite the hurt he swallowed like glass shards at his own ruined friendship with Maedhros, that Maedhros was still that young man he’d so admired.

“I am fine.” He squeezed his son’s shoulder. Turning his eyes to Maedhros he said, “Will you speak with Fingon while your father and I take council? There is much to be accomplished if the Noldor are to depart in a mere few weeks. We must work together to achieve haste.”

Fingon caught Maethros’ gaze, his own determined and unwavering. “I don’t have much skill with governance, as you know well, but you can send me out to guard the gate from slinking Maiar and I’ll have them running screaming back to their mountain.” Fingon shattered the tension of the moment just like that, a joke half self-depreciating half-arrogant. Maedhros’ mouth twitched. Fingon blew a blinding smile back. “Can’t say I’ll be much help organizing the migration of tens of thousands of people, but I could let you in on all Turgon’s secret plans to overthrow my father, yours, and then Manwë to set himself up as King of Arda.” Fingon finished his outrageous words up with a wink.

Fingolfin smacked the back of Fingon’s head lightly as Amras let out a peal of laughter. Once Amras started they all followed –with at least the shadow of a smile—such was the infectious power of Amras’ laughter.

Maglor spoke into the moment, voice touching them all like the light of Laurelin upon their skin. “Come along then, Cousin. I for one am dying to hear all about Turgon’s coup.” 

Maglor was the one to invite Fingon into the closed ranks of the Fëanorions, but it was Maedhros’ softened eyes and little curling smile as he jerked his head for Fingon to follow that had Fingon walking to Maedhros’ shoulder with a smile that settled like contentment in Fingolfin’s mouth even as their world stood within the eye of the storm. Fingon saw the little victories and beauties in their darkened world, and damn the rest, he’d get to tackling those later.

Maedhros turned a glance back at Fëanor. His father caught it and communicated without need of words with his eldest. Maedhros nodded, and called his brothers to follow him out of the corridor with a flick of his wrist. 

Some were more reluctant to leave their father’s side than others. The twins followed first, pausing to trail their fingers against Fëanor’s arms in leave taking. Caranthir stalked off next, circling close enough to his father’s back their shoulders brushed, and not sparing Fingon or Fingolfin a glance. Maglor wrapped his hand about Celegorm’s arm and said to Curufin still hovering at Fëanor’s side, unbudging, ‘Come, Brother.’ 

Curufin did not surrender his place at Fëanor’s side until Fëanor reached out and touched the small of his back. Curufin angled a glance up, eyes holding his father’s eyes as Fëanor’s hand stroked that small corner of his son’s spine until Curufin looked away, shooting a glare sharp as knives at Fingolfin before following his brothers out.

Fëanor turned away from Fingolfin, striding off down the corridor and expecting Fingolfin to follow. Fingolfin did so without resentment. When it was just between the two of them he’d meant those words ( _’You will lead and I will follow.’_ ). He would follow, but Fëanor had to wait for him; he couldn’t walk away and leave Fingolfin. There would be no dust filling Fingolfin’s mouth, only the heat of Fëanor’s fingers about his as his brother led and they walked together into glory or doom.

Fëanor turned into a lord’s study and closed the door behind them. The room would give them privacy, and that was all they needed.

Fëanor’s boots snapped against the floorboards as he crossed to one of the chairs set before a massive mahogany desk. This lord certainly did not believe in modesty; there was even a divan trimmed in gold. Fingolfin took the second chair before the desk.

Fëanor leaned back in his chair, chin tipping up, face a study in haughtier. His fingers tapped impatience upon the chair’s armrest. “You wanted to waste my time with something?”

Fingolfin’s jaw tightened, but he held onto his control. This would be like every other meeting they’d shared since Fëanor came into adulthood. Fingolfin’s skin would blaze with irritation, heart left with another knife wound, and head foggy with arousal.

No, it wouldn’t, because Fingolfin was already scrambling for control by the skin of his teeth. He was not all right. He was not the pillar of strength and stone he present to their people. He was just himself, just a son without a father and a man stretched to his limit.

Fingolfin struggled for control. He would not crack in front of Fëanor. He would _not_. “I will not condone the Oath you swore, but I hold by our agreement in the Great Square and will do all I can to prepare our people. I would ask that you remember I am not your enemy, and that you would, at the least, inform me of your decisions before you execute them. We must work together—”

Fëanor cut him off with a mocking laugh. “You did not actually think I believed a word of this ‘You will lead and I will follow’ business, did you? It is a pack of lies. I _know you_ , half-brother. If I was your king in your heart, we would not be having this conversation. You would be awaiting my decisions like you waited on Father’s. You would not be all but _demanding_ to be told first so you could start spinning your counter-plans as quickly as possible!”

How dare Fëanor? Fingolfin had damn well meant his words (in his own way) but how dare Fëanor dismiss him like some sort of liar, like something so unworthy of his trust? 

If Fingolfin hadn’t meant his words in relationship to the leadership of their people, then Fëanor had no one to blame but himself. Fëanor was the one unworthy of Fingolfin’s trust. He was the one who’d tipped into madness, run into the wilds with his grief, and sworn an Oath that could lead to nothing but grief. Fingolfin had been the one who stood strong for their people. It had been he who had been ruling the Noldor for the last five years after Finwë abandoned him to choose Fëanor (always) over him. It was Fingolfin who had proved himself the better ruler, the reliable one, the trustworthy one.

Fingolfin didn’t trust Fëanor with the future of their people, who would? But he’d not been lying when he’d said Fëanor would lead and he would follow, and how dare Fëanor imply he was some sort of forked-tongue deceiver?

Fingolfin had had enough. He shot out of his chair, masks left shattered on the floor, blood pumping hot as fire through his veins as he closed the distance to Fëanor. He stood above Fëanor, and his sex grew impossible tight with the shifted power in their positions. He looked down on Fëanor now. He couldn’t stop himself from settling his hands on the armrests of Fëanor’s chair and leaning in. 

Fëanor head tilted back, eyes hooded and seeming to smirk up at Fingolfin with a full-cup of superiority. Fingolfin couldn’t stand it. 

His voice came out in a hiss. “You are a fool. Too blinded by your own arrogance and paranoia to see what is right in front of you! You see enemies closing in about you instead of allies who might find you aggravating to the limit but who would never stab you in the back!”

Fëanor’s hands snapped up to circle about Fingolfin’s wrists. “I see you as you truly are: a spider spinning webs at my back. I know your ambition for power, your long thirst for my birthright. You cannot hide your true face from _me_ , brother-mine.”

Fingolfin pulled his wrists out of Fëanor’s netting fingers and slammed his hands into Fëanor’s shoulders, jamming Fëanor against the chair’s back and digging his nail into the hard muscles riding just under Fëanor’s tunic. His breathing came in pants and he didn’t know if it was from the fury like a living thing crouching in his throat that made every breath burn on its way up, or the lust running though every nerve ending, wanting, wanting, wanting.

“You do not know the first thing about me! You have never known me! You are blind and—”

“ _You_ are the blind one!” Fëanor’s voice leapt into a shout, eyes snapping so hot and close they looked like they wanted to bite Fingolfin. “Blinded to the truth of the world! Playing your games while the world descended into chaos around you because you could not _bare_ to loose, could not bear to admit you had become nothing but a petty grasper of power!”

Fingolfin’s fingers turned soft upon Fëanor’s shoulders as he leaned in close enough he could taste Fëanor’s exhales in his mouth. It was the closest he would ever allow himself to a kiss from that mouth. “You think you see me so well, but you only see the reflection of yourself you think you see in me. Who was it who started forging swords when they feared they no longer held Father in the palm of their hands? Hmm, Fëanor? Who was it who spoke of leading the Noldor out of Aman like a king when the true king sat just within the palace walls upon the throne you can pretended all you like that you never tried to usurp but we both know you thought would have suited you better. You have wanted control over our people to re-order our society all your life, Fëanor, and what is that but a lust for power?”

Fëanor’s nostrils flared, eyes dilating as he surged up, throwing Fingolfin off him and back into the desk. Fingolfin’s hip hit the edge of the desk hard, and he bit back a cry. 

Now it was Fëanor’s hands on Fingolfin’s shoulders, pushing him down, back smacking against the desk, as Fëanor came to loom over him. Fingolfin’s legs fell open by some primal instinct to allow Fëanor’s weight between them. 

Fëanor sunk down until he lay almost on top of him. Fingolfin trembled under him. He convinced himself it was from the rage. 

He stared up into Fëanor’s eyes. They sliced him sharp as an axe through dry wood. But then Fëanor shifted his weight and there was no way he didn’t feel the hardness pressing into his belly. Fëanor’s brows rose, mouth curling into a smirk that Fingolfin burned to smack from his face –or kiss off. 

“What is this, Fingolfin? Do you always get this _excited_ when you argue with your lords? Is this the real reason you enjoy the council chamber so much, or am I a special exception?” 

That infuriating smirk rode Fëanor’s mouth as he shifted forward along Fingolfin’s body until Fingolfin’s eyes widened as a matching hardness slotted with his. Fëanor’s eyes hooded, still smirking as he held Fingolfin’s eyes and ground his hips deliberately into Fingolfin’s.

Fingolfin couldn’t stop his lashes from fluttering at the shock of pleasure, a tinny gasp escaping his parted mouth. Fëanor laughed. Fingolfin heard all the mockery behind it, seeing only the depth of Fëanor’s smirk. It was everything he had always feared would come to pass if Fëanor ever discovered his desires. He had fought against this moment of discovery all his adult life, for it would be the work of a touch, a turned wrist, a single look, to have him under Fëanor’s control. Fëanor would not have used that power to cherish him, this moment proved the truth of his every fear: Fëanor sought to humiliate him.

Fëanor rolled his hips against Fingolfin’s again, deeper this time, a long languid roll, a soft laugh in his ear. But Fëanor’s eyes…there was that wrongness about them that had been present since he ran from the Ring of Doom caught in the jaws of grief’s madness. Inside the madness was only cruelty, triumph, and the pleasure of Fingolfin utterly humiliated and submissive under him.

Fëanor was many things, but he had never been deliberately cruel.

Fingolfin barred his teeth and shoved Fëanor up and off him. But though Fingolfin got off his back, Fëanor’s hands snapped to his waist and aborted the upward surge. Fëanor pulled him off balance, the strength of his jerk sending Fingolfin smacking into his chest. Fëanor shocked a gasp out of him when his hands dropped down to seize Fingolfin’s ass and upper thighs and lift him clear off his feet to _throw_ across the room. 

Fingolfin braced himself for impact with the hard floor, but Fëanor had good aim and he landed with a bounce on the divan. He rose with a snarl as Fëanor followed him down, Fëanor trying to trap him against the couch. Fëanor couldn’t fight him down, and Fingolfin flipped them onto the floor before Fëanor could secure a hold. 

They rolled, crashing into the chairs. A table shattered under them when Fëanor reached his knees only for Fingolfin to leap back onto him. Fëanor’s nails scratched Fingolfin’s back, Fingolfin’s fists pulled Fëanor’s hair, but little real violence was inflicted. No fists connected with faces or wrists twisted to the breaking point.

Fingolfin came out of one of their tussles with Fëanor under him. He straddled Fëanor’s waist and caged Fëanor’s wrists in his hands above Fëanor’s head. Fëanor snarled at him, fighting and snapping his teeth. Fingolfin’s head swam drunk on the power of Fëanor’s body writhing under him, and the lust ragging through his veins as he ground himself down into Fëanor’s hardness, making Fëanor’s eyes flash and cheeks flush with desire for _him_.

His lips starved for a kiss. He dove in to take one, but Fëanor jerked his mouth away before their lips touched. Fingolfin would not admit how deeply the cut of that rejection sunk into his heart. Fëanor didn’t want him. This was just some twisted game of lust and power. Fëanor would never want him like that, with softness and promises of returning, and whispers of ‘you are beautiful.’ 

He sunk his teeth into the side of Fëanor’s neck to make Fëanor hurt too. Fëanor bucked, seeking out the friction of Fingolfin’s sex pressing down into his. Fingolfin sucked on Fëanor’s skin.

Fëanor hissed like an angry cat. “Don’t you _dare_ mark me!”

Fingolfin pulled back to be the one smirking down at Fëanor this time. “How are you going to stop me?”

Fingolfin’s head came down again to taste everything he’d ever wanted. Fëanor’s forehead slammed into his. He cried out, dazed, hands loosening their hold about Fëanor’s wrists.

Fëanor slipped from under him, hands coming up to slam Fingolfin’s shoulders into the floor when he tried to turn and meet Fëanor. He fought, fingers scrambling against the floorboards, body trying to twist away, but Fëanor over-powered him. Fëanor’s hands dung into his shoulders and back, holding him pinned against the floor, face against the boards.

Fingolfin cursed as Fëanor’s weight kept him pinned and Fëanor’s hands dropped to his hips to pull them up. Fëanor laughed in his ear.

“Don’t you dare, Fëanor!” 

Fëanor’s hand planted in the center of Fingolfin’s shoulder blades, keeping Fingolfin’s head and shoulders from lifting off the floor as he positioned his hips directly behind Fingolfin’s lifted ones. 

“How are you going to stop me?” Fëanor flung Fingolfin’s words back at him as he rolled his hips into Fingolfin’s ass.

“Fëanor!” Fingolfin struggled and snarled, but Fëanor just laughed that dark, mocking laugh. Fingolfin had never heard it from Fëanor’s mouth before today. 

Fëanor rubbed himself against Fingolfin, and Fingolfin wanted to deny it, but his hips rocked back, seeking Fëanor out. This position had been imposed on him to foster the most amount of humiliation and demonstrate Fëanor’s complete dominance, but Fingolfin _wanted_.

Fëanor laughed lowly, feeling Fingolfin push back. Fingolfin closed his eyes, face burning. Fëanor draped his torso over Fingolfin’s back to whisper into his ear, lips brushing its shell, “It looks like I won, does it not, Brother- _mine_.”

Fëanor released him, rising to his feet without another word, and _walked away_. Fëanor just left him there on the floor, the door shutting behind him without even the bother of a slam. 

The humiliation crashed down on him a thousand times worse than if Fëanor had taken him there like that on the floor, at least he would have Fëanor’s lust ridding into climax with him and know it was _him_ making Fëanor cry out like that and shake to pieces inside him. At least he could have gotten up off the floor with _something_. He would have been able to close his eyes every day for the rest of his life and know what Fëanor’s hands felt like gripping his bare hips, what Fëanor moving inside him felt like, and what Fëanor sounded like in the height of pleasure (he would be vocal, Fingolfin was sure; but would he howl like a wolf, shout out in triumph, growl what Fingolfin felt like around him, or whisper that Fingolfin was perfect and beautiful and Fëanor couldn’t breathe without Fingolfin in his arms?).

But the worst humiliation was yet to come. Fingolfin didn’t know what this thing between them had been, what it meant, or if it would happen again. But whatever it had been it had obviously meant nothing to Fëanor. When Fingolfin met Fëanor again, Fëanor’s eyes slid right over him like Fingolfin was nothing. Fëanor didn’t just act like nothing had happened between them, he acted like Fingolfin had dropped back down into the mud with the unworthy, easily passed over and easily forgotten.

That was the last straw for Fingolfin. He had had enough and more than enough. Fëanor did not get to do this to him. 

It started with Fingolfin dealing with a major issue that arose between Noldor Fëanor had never claimed as ‘his,’ the ones who Fingolfin had ruled for the last five years and whose eyes automatically went to him for guidance before Fëanor. If Finwë had still been king, Fingolfin would have alerted him when issues arose. His father would have let him handle them as he saw best, but Fingolfin would have informed him and sought out his king’s permission first. Fingolfin did not ask Fëanor’s permission before dealing with it as he thought right, nor did he inform Fëanor of his actions and the event that spawned them before or after its solving. He told Fëanor nothing.

Fingolfin did not know where the whisper originated, but it had passed through the host of not only the Noldor who had chosen him, but Finarfin’s followers as well by the time the Noldor marched even a month up the coast to the North. Fingon was the first to bring it up, bold as ever. He did so with a raised brow that was only half amused, the other half worried. “Finwë Ñolofinwë?” Fingon had said. “That is what our people have taken to calling you, have you heard?”

Fingolfin had not, but Fingon had every right to be worried. Finwë was king, and king was Finwë to the Noldor, so long had he ruled over them. The whispers might as well have said: King Fingolfin.

Fingolfin could have silenced the whispers. It would have taken some doing, but he could have hushed them. He did nothing. He let them whisper. Why shouldn’t he? Fëanor was half-mad with grief, and even if he wasn’t, hadn’t Fingolfin proved himself the better ruler, the better king, time and again? Fëanor would lead their people into disaster –glorious disaster—but disaster. Why shouldn’t Fingolfin lead those Noldor who had followed him out of Tirion, him, not Fëanor? It was not as if he had _declared_ himself their king, and even if he did, wouldn’t he make a better one than Fëanor? Everything Fëanor had done for years had proved that Fingolfin would.


	27. Chapter 27

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 27

A blast of frigid air blew in when the tent flap was pulled aside. It sent the lamp’s flame flickering and Fingolfin’s eyes snapping up from his work. The hour was late, but the sky outside was as dark as it ever was. Only the stars whirling overhead gave light to the wastelands. 

Fëanor stepped into the tent. He wore a heavy cloak collared with fur, and his sword strapped to his waist. Upon his head rode the crown of the Noldor. The golden jewel at its center sang with light, purring upon the brow of its maker.

Fingolfin rose to meet his coming, standing from his chair at the field table and pushing away the furs bundling him as he labored deep into the night. He was unarmed.

Fingolfin eyed Fëanor warily as Fëanor rounded the table with the slowly stalk of a predator. “To what do I own the pleasure of your visit?” 

He had not spoken to Fëanor in private since Tirion. Not all the Noldor acknowledged Fëanor’s kingship or departed from Tirion under his banner. Fëanor still claimed lordship over even those Noldor who chose his half-brothers over him, but his governance was distant and a far second to that which he gave to his loyal followers. He had not gone so far as to openly name such Noldor as not worth his time, but the message was there.

Fëanor pressed his own people to the fore of the Noldor’s host, and all the rest just had to keep up if they wanted to follow him. He would not take the trouble to retrace his footsteps North for a chat with Fingolfin, but from the look of fury on Fëanor’s face this was no chat.

Fëanor stopped less than an arm’s length away, and Fingolfin forced himself not to take a step back at the wild fire in those silver eyes. He brought his head up instead and met Fëanor’s wrath with pride. 

“Did you think I would not hear? _Finwë Ñolofinwë_. Did you think you could attempt to usurp me without consequences?”

Fingolfin paused before answering, measuring his words. “These rumors have reached my ears as well, but I was not the root of them, this I swear. You wear our father’s crown, not I—”

“Do not play that game with me! You could have stopped them with a _word_ if you had wanted. But you like it, do you not? You like the sound of _King_ Fingolfin.” Fëanor leaned close enough Fingolfin could taste his breath on his lips. His lips hungered for a kiss. “You _traitor_.”

Fingolfin’s head flung up, nostrils flaring. “How are you going to stop me?” 

(Fëanor’s body writhing under his, under his power, the taste of Fëanor’s skin on his tongue as his teeth sank into Fëanor’s neck and marked him for his own. Fëanor walking away, _humiliating_ him.)

Fëanor’s hand shot out to wrap itself about Fingolfin’s long, strong neck. The hold was not enough to cause pain, just the heaviness of a threat. “I cannot stand _traitors_. I have no use for them. So if I were you, _Brother_ , I would start walking more _softly_.” 

Fëanor flung Fingolfin from him. Fingolfin only fell back a step, catching himself. Fëanor whirled, cloak snapping out behind him (he looked magnificent, powerful, delicious), and strode for the tent entrance.

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Fingolfin would not be left behind like trash again. He _would not_. He strode after Fëanor, grabbing a fistful of the cloak’s fur and spinning him.

Fëanor came around with a snarl, hands shooting out to grab Fingolfin by the arms, trying to wrestle them to Fingolfin’s sides, but Fingolfin would not be pinned. 

“Don’t you dare, don’t you dare, walk out of here!” Fingolfin panted as they fought without truly fighting, each holding themselves back from inflicting damage on the other’s skin. “I am not finished with you yet!”

“ _I_ will tell you when we are finished!” Fëanor drove Fingolfin back until the back of his thighs hit the field table. 

He would not be laid down like a submissive dog for Fëanor to walk away from when he’d finished with his games. He sunk his hands into Fëanor’s hair and twisted Fëanor by the head, reversing their positions until it was _Fëanor’s_ back sent crashing into the table. It had not been crafted for such use and buckled under Fëanor’s body, collapsing with a splintering of wood. Fëanor’s fist about Fingolfin’s tunic drug Fingolfin down with him to the floor. Fingolfin landed atop him with a whoosh as the air blew out of their lungs.

“My lord, are you well?” 

They froze at the voice from just outside the tent flap. He didn’t know how Fëanor had slipped passed the guards without alerting them, but if they had known it was Fëanor in here with him breaking furniture they would have already charged in, hands on swords.

He looked down into Fëanor’s eyes where he lay under him. “I am well! Just a slight…miscalculation. Your services are no longer required tonight, you are dismissed!”

A pause. “If you are certain, my lord—”

“Yes, yes, I am certain. I will see you on the marrow, Gwíheron. Go home to your wife.”

“As you wish, Finwë Ñolofinwë, and a good night to you.” The guards’ footsteps retreated.

Fëanor’s fingers tightened to claws about Fingolfin’s biceps. “To your face. To your face they name you their king. You traitor. _You traitor_.” Fëanor’s fingers dug deep enough to leave bruises in Fingolfin’s arms. “I am your _king_.”

Fingolfin looked into Fëanor’s eyes. He found more than rage looking back; he found hurt (and the edges of madness, always the madness).

Fingolfin’s mouth parted, staring. He’d hurt Fëanor. He’d never thought…but Fëanor was so arrogant, so sure of himself, so convinced he was right, the best, the only voice and opinion that mattered, scorning all those who didn’t bend their backs to his will, tossing them from him like they were worthless. Didn’t Fëanor. Didn’t he?

But somehow, somehow Fingolfin had had the power to hurt Fëanor, and had done so without even aiming to. He’d been furious with Fëanor, so humiliated and done with him, but he’d never thought anything he did had the power to do more than stir up Fëanor’s wrath.

“I…Fëanor…” Fingolfin rose to his knees, removing his weight from Fëanor’s body. Fëanor followed him off the floor.

“Is it not enough we go to fight a Vala?” The fury rode over everything again. “Is it not enough the Valar lie at our backs plotting only Eru knows what against our escape? Is it not enough we have found ourselves in a wasteland with little enough food, a cold that grows more treacherous every step we press North, and the land shrinking in around us, squeezing tight as we reach the limits of our cage and we understand, finally, fully, the depths of the Valar’s designs for our imprisonment? You have to undermine me, try to steal _my father’s_ crown from me?” Fëanor’s breath came in pants, eyes bright and wild. He flung out like a spear: “Well what do you have to say oh noble, righteous prince of the Noldor?” 

Fingolfin did not know what to say. Fëanor jumped on before he could order his thoughts. “Nothing? Nothing!” Fëanor rose to his knees, eyes burning, burning, burning.

“Just,” Fingolfin’s hand rose, reaching out to the spirit burning itself up in front of his eyes. “Wait a moment. We will find a way out, together, together, Fëanor. Let us just—”

“No!” Fëanor flung out an arm, throwing Fingolfin’s reaching hands off him. “I am _suffocating_.” His hands flew to his tunic collar, tearing at it. “Cannot you feel this force crushing us under its heel? We are trapped here, trapped! Father needs us! He is waiting for us to avenge him and _force_ Mandos to give him back to us when we have done what the Valar combined cannot! The Silmarils are waiting for me to rescue them! We need them, we need them to get Father back, but I am stuck here, trapped between the mountains and the sea! I will not be held prisoner! I will not be _controlled_! I am not an animal to be restrained!” Fëanor’s hands tore at his hair, eyes wild, so wild and fey and burning, burning, burning.

“We will find a way. We will find a way. Fëanor—” 

Fëanor twisted out of Fingolfin’s hands, stumbling to his feet. “You understand _nothing_. You see _nothing_! You are as blind as all the rest!” He made for the door. “We must rip our freedom from our captor’s grasp if that is what it takes to be free! I will not be leashed. I will not be!”

Fingolfin stood, unwilling to let Fëanor out of his sight. He was far passed alarmed. He’d know Fëanor’s mind was unwell, the Oath was evidence enough to that, but this…it was like Fëanor had lost all grasp on reality. 

“I need my sons. Where are my sons?” Fëanor’s hand came up to fist the tent flap. It shook, and his voice….Fingolfin had never heard it so naked, so vulnerable. “I need them, I need…” His eyes were glassy. “Maedhros! Maglor! Celegorm! Caranthir!” His breaths came in rasping heaves. “Curufin.” His eyes clenched, body shaking. He stood with a sword on his waist, a crown on his head, and a fur mantel caping him in an air of power and majesty, but inside all these trappings he shivered like a child. “Curufin.” The word fell away, so soft it broke apart.

“Fëanor.” Fingolfin’s hands settled on his brother’s shoulders. “Your sons are close. I will send for them. They will be with you soon.”

Fëanor turned confused, unseeing eyes upon him. “They have not left me?” 

Fingolfin’s throat closed like a fist, a knot burning inside it so he could not breathe through the pain the fragile sound of Fëanor’s voice sunk into him. His brother should never sound like that. Not Fëanor who blazed and set the world on fire with light and beauty and left trembling life in his wake.

Not Fëanor who Fingolfin was beginning to realized he may never have know before this moment –or forgotten everything he’d once known. Who he remembered, with the sharp brightness of a star under his tongue, he had once _adored_ , not just lusted after, not just wanted to stand beside because he wanted to win and prove himself the equal of, but because he had adored his big brother and never wanted to be parted from him because he lov—he loved him. 

“No, Fëanor, they have not left you. They will never leave you. Wait a moment for me here, I will send for them. They will be with you soon.” 

His hands slipped off his brother’s shoulders and pulled the tent flap aside. Just before he ducked out, a hand on his arm stayed him. He looked back to find Fëanor’s eyes on him, so bright they looked feverish. “You will bring them to me?”

“Yes. I promise. I will bring them.”

He couldn’t look into those eyes that should never, ever be that broken, so he turned away, setting out to fulfill his promise. Fëanor’s sons would take him back to the Fëanorions’ encampment and the home of their arms, and Fingolfin would ensure no one else saw his brother when he was this vulnerable. 

He sent word to the Fëanorion encampment, the message delicate as a cat’s paw upon snow. Maedhros would read between the lines and come with all haste.

The deed done, he returned to his tent and stood outside it for a long moment, not able to face what awaited him inside. Was that face that had trembled like it had been forged of butterfly bones –fragile as a cradle of wrist, beautiful as the rising of a pale star—the work of the grief-madness, or had those vulnerable eyes always belonged to Fëanor, kept down deep in the roots of him?

And how could Fingolfin have been so absorbed in his own pain not to have seen the destruction in the back of Fëanor’s eyes? No. He had seen it. It was worse than self-absorption, for he had seen and disregarded it.

He wanted to reach down and scoop out all the terror he’d seen in Fëanor’s eyes. He wanted to travel back in time and stand by Fëanor’s shoulder against the Valar as he always should have done –Fëanor would have gotten used to Fingolfin standing there if Fingolfin had stood long enough. 

Fingolfin looked back with the impotency of hindsight. If only he had swallowed his pride long enough to press through Fëanor’s rejection. It would not have killed him, it was not poison. But he had chosen to nurse his pride. He deceived himself if he ever believed his own lie that he did what he did for their people’s sake. The truth was that Fëanor’s utter disregard for him, to the point of planning to cast him like trash from the city, wounded him, his heart and his pride, but he could not wrestle his wild and willful heart, so he licked his wounded pride.

He wished now that he could unspin the world. He would find his younger self, lay in wait for him until he could snag young Fingolfin’s wrist and drag him away. Then he would make young Fingolfin promise never to let anyone silence him, to never sacrifice his voice for his masks, to never lose himself in the games and forget what lay, burning, under the face of a politician. When young Fingolfin argued against this hard won wisdom and perhaps drop the lie they’d told themselves a hundred times: Fëanor is like that, and I cannot stand him. I cannot. Fingolfin would speak the truth they both had always known and fought: Fëanor’s heart roars with passion, and it is a magnificent thing when a person is in love with the way the world could be. Fëanor is beautiful in a way so much more than skin deep.

But Fingolfin could not unspin time, he could only pull the tent flap back and step into the ruin of this darkened world.

Fëanor’s back was to the entrance, but he slid a glance over the line of his fur-clad shoulder to Fingolfin. The shattering had been sown up again, and the face Fëanor turned to Fingolfin matched the regal air of Fëanor’s bearing.

Fingolfin paused, one hand still holding up the tent flap. They stared at each other in silence, until, suddenly, Fingolfin recognized the pull of his pride holding his face impervious. He recognized himself, and overcame. “I know you do not trust me, but if you never trust me in anything else again, trust me in this: no whisper of tonight will ever pass my lips.”

Fëanor’s mouth curled with disbelief. “I find it hard to believe you would pass over such rich fodder for your fire. The word will spread quickly through your camp of Mad King Fëanor.” He shrugged, spinning to cross the tent in sharp strides. “It matters not what the Noldor who have chosen against their true king believe.” 

Fingolfin fell back a step to let the storm of Fëanor pass him by. Fëanor’s horse awaited him at the back of the tent, and Fingolfin followed as one lured. He had no words to convince Fëanor of his honesty, only time could do that.

Fëanor swung his leg over his horse’s back, finding his seat with grace and power. The cloak spilled over the horse’s hunches, draping with the majesty of a ceremonial robe over a throne. The light of the golden jewel in the crown’s center flashed defiance of the darkness. Its light washed over Fëanor’s skin, setting it aglow and turning his cheeks rosy with health and his lips into temptation herself.

Fingolfin cannot bear to be parted from him. He closed the distance to Fëanor’s side and took his brother’s hand on impulse, tightening his hold when Fëanor’s skin jumped against his. “I have given you my word. It may mean nothing to you, but you will see that I am true. My king.” He whispered the last like a love confession.

Fëanor’s eyes swept over his face, searching, almost yearning in their search for truth. His eyes dropped to their clasped hands, then back up into Fingolfin’s face. Slowly, Fëanor withdrew his hand, and Fingolfin berated himself for allowing himself to believe, if only for this moment, that his words had meant something to Fëanor.

But instead of leaving him here, alone, as Fëanor ever did, Fëanor’s freed hand came up. A loose curl had unraveled from Fingolfin’s braids, and now wound itself about Fëanor’s finger like it had found home. “Your hair…” 

An untamed ocean birthed itself inside Fingolfin.

But then Fëanor dropped the touch, hand falling into the safety of his horse’s mane. Fingolfin stepped back, though it felt like he swallowed his tongue. Fëanor did not look back at him again as he sent his horse into a canter. Fingolfin was convinced Fëanor would have chosen a gallop had they not been in the midst of the encampment.

*

The tent flap had been rolled up and pinned. Fingolfin had dragged a stool to the opening and stared out. His family’s circle of tents had been raised on a crown of hill, and he looked down at the encampment of his people spread out below him, a forest of blacker smudges within the darkness broken by the white wash of the Fëanorion Lamps hoisted high.

Their second northward march hugged the coast tighter then the first time they drudged through these lands. The reason why bobbed on their anchors in the bay they’d set up camp beside. Even in the relative safety of the harbor, the sea bore the weight of the stolen Telerin ship with wrath. The waves crashed against the white hulls, lifting them high to send them dipping sharply down again. The sea had not eaten Noldor-lives for weeks, but the threat hissed like a snake under its skin, and memory kept the sound of screams and splintering masts fresh and haunting.

Night after night, week after week, Fingolfin’s mind fixed upon the ships. Their only escape. Fëanor had seized them after Alqualondë, and allowed none of Fingolfin’s people to board in strength. Only the odd messenger and those Elves amongst Fingolfin’s people wounded in the defense of the Fëanorions were allowed. 

Fingolfin’s thumb rubbed over the hilt of his sword. He had forced himself to sharpen the blade after he’d cleaned the blood off, and Fingon had begged him to carry it with him –always—until Fingolfin conceded for his son’s peace of mind. Most days he could not bring himself to look at it when he strapped it on. 

But his revulsion for the tool that had slain Elven-blood was the only weakness he allowed himself. He did not look at the ships and think of the way the astonishingly blue waters of Alqualondë turned dark with blood, like spilled ink. He did not think of the bodies of the Noldor sucked down to death by the weight of their armor. He did not think of the sound his sword made piercing flesh. 

There were many thoughts he denied himself from dwelling upon. Too many people depended on him to be strong, so he made himself thus. Too many hearts wavered after Alqualondë and the Doom, so he made sure he shone with confidence. Too many people needed him for him to allow himself to wallow in grief and remorse.

Instead he turned his brooding upon the future of his people and family. These thoughts were not lighter than the past. Especially not now. After Mandos delivered his Doom, Fingolfin spent a long night amongst his people, shoring up their doubts. If he were honest he would admit Fëanor had taken care of the worst of the quelling hearts with his fiery words. Fëanor had always had a way with words.

Fingolfin’s gaze bore into the side of the ship flying Fëanor’s banner. No word from them since Fëanor’s rousing speech. The silence was like the silence of thunder’s wake. Fingolfin was left holding his breath for the next rumble to shake the earth. 

He dug his eyes into the ship as if he could _will_ Fëanor’s appearance. He yearned to speak with him, to see him, to just _look_ at him. But such a yearning was an indulgence he could not afford. 

A bright-haired figure broke through the ring of Fingolfin’s family’s tents, and crossed the open space at their center at a run. Fingolfin rose and strode out to greet his nephew.

Angrod slowed as he covered the last few feet to come to a breathless stop before him. “Uncle, my father has gone mad!”

Fingolfin’s eyes sharpened on Angrod’s face. The light of the Fëanorion Lamps bleached all the color from Angrod’s skin, and set his eyes glittering like the flesh fevers Fingolfin had witness in the wounded. “Tell me everything.”

Angrod caught at Fingolfin’s sleeve, tugging him forward. “I will tell you on the way. I think Aegnor might do Father some harm if I do not return with all haste.” They broke through the circle of tents and found Angrod’s horse chomping on the stubbly grass of this lightless land, seeking what nutrients could be found. “Is Rochallor hobbled far from here?”

Fingolfin pointed at a make-shift enclosure thrown up at the hill’s base. Horses greedily tore up the lush grass within. Surviving in this cold land of night was exhausting. At every fresh camp, the Elves had to sing the land into birth. It ate away at their energy to sing the Songs of Power to pull nutrients up, and imitate the light of the Trees. Fingolfin had found himself wishing on many occasions that a singer of Maglor or Finrod’s power was numbered amongst his own people. They made due though. 

He swung up behind Angrod on the horse, and they set off for the corral. “What has Finarfin done?”

Angrod jerked his head, tossing his hair back, agitation written in every line of his back. “He says he is leaving.”

Fingolfin’s shoulders stiffened. “What.” It was not a question, but a word bitten out like stone lodged in the throat.

“He wants to go back, to Tirion.” Fingolfin breathed deeply through the churning ocean trapped inside his belly. “Finrod is trying to reason with him, Aegnor won’t stop shouting, and Galadriel…she is so furious with him she walked out before I left to fetch you.” They reached the corral, and Angrod caught Fingolfin’s arm as he slipped off the horse’s back. Angrod’s eyes looked white in the pale light, like white flames. “You will make him see reason, won’t you, Uncle? You won’t let him leave.”

Fingolfin pressed his hand into Angrod’s. “I will try. I promise.”

They rode in silence to Finarfin’s camp. Fingolfin heard Finrod’s raised voice through the fabric of the tent wall as they approached. Finrod had a voice like summertime, rich with sky blues, bird song, and a lightness of soul that sent feet dancing. 

Fingolfin ducked into the tent behind Angrod, and Finrod’s voice hit him like the humid, heavy press of a summer thunderstorm. Often he had heard his nephew’s voice raised in passion, but rarely in anger as it was now. 

Galadriel had returned. Her back was thrown up, a sharp line of pale shoulders with steel for bones underneath. She wore the face of a queen dealing out her law. 

Aegnor stood apart, mouth compressed into a hard line, eyes dampened from their rage to a smolder, hands fisted at his sides, and hair wild from the hands he must have raked through it as he ranted and shouted and stormed through the room. A chair still lay on its side.

Angrod went straight to his brother, his presence the steady rock to Aegnor’s quick-silver temper. Fingolfin remembered a time when these two would have holed themselves up in a corner with Fingon as their family’s disputes washed over them, trading laughter and jests between themselves. The first time Fingolfin feared for Aegnor when that temper of his took him was after Alqualondë. Aegnor had been known to raise his voice in Tirion, but never had he used violence to speak. 

Every one of them had changed.

Finrod stood before his father as he argued his case. In the light of the Lamps Finrod’s pale gold hair seemed white as bleached bones. His cheekbones carried red like a woman’s blush, the pale light not able to wash out the tide of anger from his skin. 

Finrod’s eyes turned at their entrance, and he laid his argument aside to call Fingolfin forward. “Uncle! You must help me show Father he has set himself upon the wrong path.”

Finarfin’s jaw set as he met Fingolfin’s eyes. Fingolfin did not pretend his gaze held anything like understanding. How could Finarfin think of abandoning them? “Finarfin, do not tell me Mandos’ Doom has turned your heart! He spoke to stir up fear and turn neighbor against neighbor. You cannot leave us. We need you here.” Fingolfin grasped his brother’s forearm, as if to physically restrain him from leaving them.

Finarfin’s hand dropped to circle the underside of Fingolfin’s forearm, clasping him back, but his gaze did not waver. “I must go. I _must_. I cannot condone the crime that was committed by our people.”

Fingolfin’s nostrils flared. He did not want to speak of Alqualondë. Why did Finarfin have to bring it up? It was months ago. Let it lie there, dead in the past, until its memory had decomposed like the rotting thing it was. “We must look to the future, Finarfin. Keep your eyes ahead and your steps will be true.”

Finarfin’s hand dropped from Fingolfin. He shook his head, mouth opened with a mix of disbelief and self-disgust. “Do you not understand? Every step I have taken since the murdering of my people by my people has been the wrong one.”

“The Noldor are your only people now, and we need you. Your family needs you.”

Finarfin took a step back, away from him. “People were murdered, Fingolfin. People I have known since I was a child. People I respected, people I loved. Noldor and Teleri both. And I cannot get passed that. I do not see this future you speak of. I lie down to sleep at night and see my law-father’s face when I came to negotiate the recovery of the Teleri’s bodies. I hear my wife’s voice when I told her I would follow you North. I smell the burring pyres of thousands of my two peoples who were slaughtered _needlessly_. I cannot turn my face away from what was done any longer. I must go back. I must remove myself from this deed, for by remaining in silence I condone what happened.”

“No, Father.” Finrod spoke up. “We had no part in the slaying of Mother’s people. We are innocent. We have a common goal with Fëanor, that is why we go to Endor with him, but we are not a part of him or his crimes.”

“But we are, Finrod. We became so the moment we silenced ourselves and followed him from Alqualondë.”

Anger reared itself inside Fingolfin like a snorting bull. Finarfin would abandon them. He would leave Fingolfin alone to stand between Fëanor’s recklessness and their people’s safety. He would choose his sense of morality over their people, their family, even his own children. Fingolfin didn’t understand him at all. He couldn’t imagine returning to Tirion. He would rather die than return alone to that place of gods-hands upon their necks.

“Father, you must see reason!” Finrod would not accept his father’s departure so easily. “Think of what your leaving would do to our people’s moral. Think of what it would mean for us left here under Fëanor’s paranoid rule. Do you believe Fëanor would look upon us and see kin or traitors? Your children have been too outspoken in our condemnation of Fëanor’s actions.”

“That is why I have asked you to come with me.” Finarfin’s hand reached out, picking up Finrod’s balled fist. With patient fingers he worked the fist from his son’s hand. Finrod did not stop his father from linking their hands. “Please, Finrod.” Finarfin’s voice trembled in the air like a singer who’d wore his voice thin from overuse. Finarfin swallowed, and stumbled on. “I know your heart is sickened as mine is. Come back with me, my son. Let us leave this madness behind us.” Finrod stared at their joined hands as the silence grew oppressive. “ _Please_.”

“Finrod.” Galadriel’s deep voice called her brother back. Perhaps Finrod would have wavered, and given into Finarfin’s plea. Fingolfin saw Finarfin strongest in Finrod of all his children. Not the Finarfin most eyes saw, but the bother Fingolfin remembered from their childhood, the one who stood up against injustices against the weak and damaged. If theirs had been a different set of parents, Finarfin might tremble with passion like Finrod, throwing his light before him, and drawing hearts to its brilliance.

Finrod slipped his hand from his father’s. A silent refusal. His gaze did not flinch from his father’s face, for he was as much his father’s son as he was a descendant of Finwë. “My heart calls me on, Father. I would see these Eastern lands, and raise kingdoms there. But I also go on because Morgoth is a danger to all the world, and cannot be allowed to run free.”

Finarfin’s breath rattled in his lungs, as if glass had grown in his throat. He turned to his other children. “Galadriel, daughter, you remember how your mother longed for you to remain with her? It is your choice, I would never force you, but can you find it in your heart to return with me?”

Galadriel drew her eyes down the length of her father’s body, before settling on his face, her own holding her thoughts secret. “You would ask this of me? You, who I have spoken my heart to and know how it hungers for all that which is denied me here in Aman? You, who know even the lust for vengeance birthed in me as I walked between the bodies of my mother’s people?”

“Yes.” Finarfin’s voice found a patch of calm waves to ride upon. “Out of all my children, it is you I fear for most. Not because you lack any fortitude of spirit or strength of body, but because of that dark impulse you cradle and nurse like righteousness in your breast. I fear for the path your desire for vengeance will take you down. Return with me now, Galadriel, cast your ambitions and vengeance aside! I beg of you!”

Galadriel’s featured did not flicker from their proud and queenly carriage. With her mouth a neutral line, her stride powerful and stately, and her eyes veiling her thoughts, she crossed to her father. She pressed a cool kiss into his cheek. When he reached out to embrace her, she straightened her spine and stepped back. 

“Goodbye, Father. I do not except we shall meet again in this life.” She swept to the tent flap, only pausing to curve her long swan neck back to say: “Take Mother my love.” 

The silence after that departure drowned in its own weight.

Aegnor could not take it another moment and spoke before Finarfin could turn his painful gaze upon him. “I go with Finrod. I will not turn aside from the path I have chosen. It is done. I love you, Father, but this cup you press to our lips is a bitter one indeed.” 

“I go with Aegnor,” Angrod said, not quite meeting his father’s eyes. The brothers gripped each other’s hands as they approached their father for a final embrace, lingering in the moment and allowing Finarfin to whisper words to them as Galadriel had not.

“No, you are not leaving.” Finrod’s voice cut like starlight though the sorrow.

Finarfin reached out to his firstborn, “Finrod, I must.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Finrod’s hand dropped through the air as if he could brush aside the reality of his father’s departure like a spiral of disturbed dust. “I am not listening to this anymore. Find me when you have come to your senses.” 

Finrod came close to running from the tent. Fingolfin caught a last glimpse of his nephew’s face as Finrod dashed passed; it was not flushed high with color now, but pale. His face resembled a marble statue, frozen in a moment of perfect beauty and impassivity. The bold color and fervency of his nature fled before the crushing weight of his father’s abandonment.

Finarfin made to go after Finrod, but Angrod held him back. “Let him be for a time. You are not leaving this very hour, and he needs time to accept your choice.”

“Yes, you are right.” Finarfin bowed his head.

Angrod and Aegnor left together, the other’s steadfast support. Those two and Galadriel would be alright. Fingolfin was not so sure about Finrod. Finrod and Finarfin had always shared a special bond, as Fingolfin did with Fingon. Finrod would now also be Head of Finarfin’s House and followers.

The idea of every leaving Fingon, any of his children, left Fingolfin feeling physically sick and the dizziness of panic climbing his throat. He could not understand Finarfin at all. And he could not forgive him for doing this to his children. Fingolfin felt Finarfin’s abandonment like a piece torn out from under his ribs. It left an ache hollow as wind, but he counted it as nothing against Finarfin’s abandonment of his children.

Fingolfin could not look at Finarfin another moment. He could not see the defeated slump of his shoulders, his bowed head, or the way his hands had folded over his face in despair. Finarfin _chose_ to leave them. 

Finarfin’s voice floated thin as a reed to Fingolfin as he pulled aside the tent’s flap, wanting out, wanting away. “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

Fingolfin felt a wildness inside him. He wanted to make Finarfin hurt like he hurt, struck to the core by Finarfin’s abandonment. “Not as sorry as I am that you did not have the strength for the road!”

Finarfin made a noise behind him like he had taken a physical blow. Fingolfin hesitated, almost succumbing to the guilt and looking back. But though he knew he would regret this parting, he could not force himself to turn back and look at the one who had chosen to assuage his own guilt over the family who needed him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A double update again!
> 
> Well, my dear readers, this is the last chapter of this story. It has taken me a looong time to finish, so thank you all so much for sticking it out with me to the end :) Hearing that readers have enjoyed the story has been the greatest blessing to me, so thank you!

The Revolutionary and the Usurper  
Chapter 28

The stars glinted like naked swords in the sky, a host of a thousand thousand. Their light could not challenge the shadows that slithered with laughter at Fëanor’s feet. It was a dark laughter smelling of the deeps of space, and sank into the joints of his skeleton like the slow kiss of a serpent’s fangs.

His hands curled into balls.

_Little love for the proud son of Míriel has the children of Indis._ The sly sound of a serpent’s belly slithering over dry stones. 

Yes, he had been betrayed. The son of Indis had sought to stick a stake of ownership into the breast of his father, his mother’s, legacy. 

The traitors with their traitor king would look East, but no ships would return to ferry the voices that had cursed their true king’s name. Those ones with their faint-hearts quailing in chests casting regretful looks back into cages, and hands fingering sword hilts when the loyal followers of the son of Míriel passed by. No. There would be no ships sent back for those who would rebel against their king and take another in his place.

The bellies of the ships breathed heavy in the sea, bobbing like corpses. Up and down, up and down. 

He’d geared his soldiers for defense when he went to save his people, his sons, himself, from slow suffocation. When he went to take the ships. The threat of the Valar’s pursuit should the Noldor ever break free of their cage had Fëanor designing proto-types of the steel-woven breastplates and backplates his soldiers now wore. The weight of the metal had sunk those men swift as boulders. No bobbing bodies those. But some Elves, both Teleri and Noldor, had not been as heavily armored. Those bodies had skimmed along the surface for a time, the cause of death laid open in the slash from Noldor-sword or the Teleri-arrows pin-cushioning them.

Fëanor couldn’t look at the swan ships without remembering the bobbing bodies. Let him be rid of them! The gateway to traitors, the temptation at their backs, he would have them gone!

_Yesss. Sly, that one. Clever, false-tongued. Collector of hearts. Wearer of Finwë’s crown in banishment. Who then had Finwë loved best? Who then had the Noldor chosen to call king behind the eldest’s back? Who then had the firstborn son’s heart fallen to but the child of Indis’ child? Is the lap dog boy of the Traitor worthy? Is he more worthy of the son’s heart than **you**?_

The breeze stroked down his spine like the drag of broken fingernails. _Fëanor_. Breath on his neck. The sultry scent of iron and the fire-belly of the Earth. The memory of a mocking smirk, “I could have you whenever I wanted.”

The voice of memories or the laughter of shadows? The light ran strange into the folds of this land, and the night swirled with the long dark. A land of freedom or one already enthralled to a god, his the chains about its bones?

Fëanor turned from the bobbing boats to look inland, where the murderer of his father sulked. The black slopes of mountains dominated the eastern sky. Somewhere out there a murderer ran free. Fëanor would bring him to justice.

Laughter like bones breaking. _With what weapon, Spirit of Fire, will you slay the lord of gods? You never did discover how to kill Valar, did you? Do you think to challenge **me** with that bit of metal on your hip?_

Fëanor’s hand fisted around the pommel of his sword. It would be enough when wielded by his hand, with the weight of vengeance and justice behind it, with the flame of his spirit burning the earth up before him as he came. It had to be.

He made his way back to his tent. The slithering shadows crept in behind him, the laughter rustling in the dark corners of the tent. Where were his sons?

_You sent them out to die._ No. Celegorm and Maglor scouted the perimeter of the shore, testing out the land. They would be back to him in a few hours. _Their lives are already forfeit. You know this. Their hearts still beat in their chests, but every beat is one more closer to death and eternal damnation._

Lies! Lies! Lies! 

Fëanor dug his nails into the flesh of his cheeks. He groaned like one mortally wounded, nails drawing blood. His mind writhed against the talons Morgoth had sunk inside. He had to get free! Get free of this Oath choking him to death, get out from under this Doom, get the rotting bulk of Morgoth’s lies off him!

He used the physical pain as anchor, smashing the lies to bits until he was safe inside his own mind again. 

He was saving his sons from cages. Yes, yes. He was getting Father back, and the Light, yes the light; they must have the light in the darkness. He was saving them, saving them all.

He had work to do. 

He found his feet again and wiped the worst of the blood off, before striding towards the field table. In a few hours the last of the provisions would be unloaded from the ships, and then they would be gone, and their threat and memory with them.

He pulled out the map of the coastline Curufin had sketched on their way down the coast seeking a serviceable bay. He traced the jagged lines of land, and the fresh ink he’d penned in after they’d done their first sweep of their chosen landing. It was a start. Celegorm and Malgor’s deeper surveillance would serve them well. 

Fëanor planned to push father inland before raising anything close to a permanent settlement. They would take their bearings of this new land, learn its wildlife, fauna, and peoples, and then press on towards vengeance.

He looked up as Maedhros pulled aside the tent flap and stepped in. His son. Fëanor held out a hand, and Maedhros came to him and curled their fingers about each other. The breath pulled easier through Fëanor’s lungs.

“Father,” Maedhros whispered, free hand reaching up to brush the healing scratch lines. “What have you done to yourself?”

Fëanor turned his head away. “It is nothing.” He untangled his hand and went to the washing bowl. He splashed cool water over his face, washing the stain of blood off, and patted his skin dry with a cloth before returning to Maedhros.

They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a silence that Fëanor wanted gone. He did not like the way Maedhros’ gaze lingered on his abused cheeks. He wanted no memory of it. He snatched up his son’s hand again, wrestling back normalcy. “How does the work progress?”

“At an acceptable pace –given the limitations of the light,” Maedhros gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Caranthir selected a group with those most skilled in bow, sword, and the ways of the wilderness for the first patrol as you asked.”

“Good.” Fëanor drew his son’s gaze to the map, tapping his finger over the Eastern shore-line of the bay. “Tomorrow we will send another scouting party deeper inland, here. I want to be ready to move east within the week.”

Maedhros frowned. “I thought we agreed to wait for the ships to return with the rest of our people? We said two weeks. Enough time for Fingolfin and those backing him in his bid for the crown to have a good long time to think over their betrayal, but not so long they cling to bitterness and pride over survival when we send the ships back and make them swear the oath of loyalty to their king before ferrying them over. If the majority of our people press inland that leaves those guarding the ships vulnerable. I do not like the idea of splitting our host, Father.”

“No ship will I send back to traitors.” Fëanor busied himself with rolling up the map, not looking at Maedhros. “I will burn the ships once the supplies are unloaded.”

Silence. He could hear the unsteady breaths of his son. It was better this way. Maedhros would suffer some pain, for he loved the Traitor’s son, but soon he would see that Fëanor had saved him from the worse heart-break of betrayal. The Traitor’s son was a lap dog to the Traitor, and would have chosen the Traitor over his beautiful, precious Maedhros and that kind of betrayal hurt worse than any separation of miles. But Fëanor would protect Maedhros from that pain. He would protect his sons from everything.

“Father,” Maedhros’ voice came out too broken, and he had to try again. Fëanor’s fingers curled into themselves, nails biting skin. Punishment. “We need Fingolfin’s host if we hope to defeat a Vala,” his voice tripped over the last words. The sound of his swallow came thick in the silence. 

“What we need is a powerful enough weapon to defeat Morgoth, which I am working on creating. We do _not_ need traitors and back-stabbers sleeping amongst us!” Fëanor looked up as his speech gathered passion, confident now that Maedhros could be made to understand.

Maedhros returned the gaze with a carefully hidden one of his own. “Very well, we will not send the boats back. However you must see what folly it would be to burn such a valuable resource. These lands are unknown to us, their dangers secreted. A war with a Vala lies before us. Let us preserve what strength and advantages we have. With the ships—”

“I want them _gone_!” Fëanor’s hand flung out, knocking into a stack of scrolls and sending them tumbling to the ground. “It is that Traitor’s fault, and those back-stabbing hanger-on’s with him! If the Traitor had not tried to usurp my birthright, if he had not stolen my father from me, I never would have—” Fëanor chest heaved. If it hadn’t been for the Traitor he never would have been banished and Father wouldn’t be dead. If it wasn’t for the Traitor Fëanor never would have made the Oath.

Why had he— no, no, he was saving them! It was all the Traitor’s fault, and Fëanor must defend against him! He could not let the Traitor’s people take the ships. They would betray him, worm their way between his sons and him and steal them from his side as the Traitor’s son had tried to steal Maedhros. And then his sons would leave him.

“That Traitor has betrayed me!” Spittle flew from his lips, the red haze blazing all-consuming behind his eyes. “He plotted to steal Father from me! He tried to take Father’s crown, Father’s _memory_ , Mother’s place! But I will not be usurped! I will not—”

“Father,” Maedhros caught his hands. Fëanor’s eyes swung wild over Maedhros’ face. “Father, _please_.”

Fëanor’s eyes fixed on his son’s, finding the shimmer of tears in those beloved eyes. Don’t cry, little fox. He surged up, taking Maedhros’ face in his palms. “Maedhros,” he kissed his son’s brow. Maedhros sighed into him, arms circling around his waist. 

Fëanor must make Maedhros understand. “He would never have been faithful to your love.” Maedhros stiffened against him. 

“Listen.” Fëanor’s fingers held so tight to his son they pressed the skin white. (Don’t leave me!) “His loyalty is given to his father. He never loved you enough, like you deserved to be loved. But now he will never hurt you again.” Fëanor’s grip eased on Maedhros’ jaw to slide his hands into his son’s hair and cradled the back of his skull, bringing their faces close, brow to brow. “Do not mourn for him. The love I hold for you, that your brothers hold for you, eclipses the love that boy could have ever given you like the ocean eclipses a raindrop. We are here, and we will never betray you.”

Maedhros did not speak, did not whisper love back, but he did not pull away from Fëanor’s arms. After a moment Maedhros slipped his hands up Fëanor’s back to take hold of his shoulders and push him gently away. Fëanor’s heart felt like it was being dunked into an arctic sea. But when Maedhros looked at him, though there were tears on his cheeks, his eyes trembled with love.

“Father, I love you.” Maedhros’ voice cracked. “But you have gone away.”

“No, no, I am right here,” Fëanor’s hands twisted in Maedhros’ tunic, holding on like an infant’s clenching fists to its parent’s thumb. “I am right here.”

Another tear fell, Maedhros’ mouth shook. “No. You are far away, locked in the prison inside your mind. And I do not hate you for going away. Never. But I wish I knew how to bring you home again.”

“Stop it. I am right here!” Fëanor’s fingers tightened on his son’s arms, wanting to shake the lies off Maedhros’ tongue. There was no prison. There was only the mission, only the salvation of his sons and people, only the killing of a Vala ahead. Nothing behind. Nothing. “Enough of this!” He did shake Maedhros then. “We have work to do. Curufin is supervising the unloading of the cargo alone. We will go down and lend a hand, for I want the threat of the ships dealt with tonight. And Caranthir—”

Maedhros cut off Fëanor’s words with his mouth, a closed-mouth press of lips on lips. Maedhros held his mouth soft and still against his father’s until Fëanor unthawed from the shock of it, and returned the gentle press of lips. His hands turned tender on Maedhros’ arms, loosening to hook about Maedhros’ waist with an uncertain touch. But he loved his son, more than that Traitor’s son had any right to. He loved his little fox so much, so very much. He must not let him go. 

His eyes slid open and he found Maedhros looking back at him. His mouth stilled, held suspended by his son’s eyes. 

His son. Whose heart he was willfully breaking by tearing Maedhros away from the only person he had ever wanted, a boy with blue eyes and Fingolfin’s storm of hair who _loved_ Maedhros back.

Fëanor broke the kiss, stumbling back, hand coming up to cover his mouth as the horror of what he’d plotted struck him. And he had told Maedhros his family’s love was enough and more than enough! How could Maedhros bear to be near him when Fëanor ripped out his heart?

“I am sorry. I am _so_ sorry.” He struggled to draw breath, pulling it in in erratic gulps. Oh gods, oh gods. He had lost his mind. What had he done? 

“Father, shh, shh. It is all right,” Maedhros’ arms tried to catch him, but Fëanor could not bear it.

“Forgive me!” Fëanor’s hands tore at his hair. “I promise, I swear, I will send the ships back. I will make it better. I will make everything better.” 

But nothing would ever be all right again. The truth slipped between his ribs like a sword thrust, like the truth he’d been running from inside the madness. Because he could not face what he had done. The Oath. He had enslaved his own sons, his dearest ones, to its chains. 

Not his sons, please! Ask him for anything else! Ask him for his own soul, yes, yes, of course he would give it, gladly hand it over in payment. Ask him if he would die to undo what he had done, and he would pull the veins from his skin and hand them over as ransom. 

But it was too late. 

He could see the moment he destroyed his sons, voices shouted in passion, the smoke from the torches lighting the square curling up like hazy clouds to the darkened sky, and madness, madness pounding like a heartbeat through his mind.

There was the place he dug their graves with their bones. There was their futures he led into the slaughterhouse, the laughter cut from their faces like flesh. There was the love for him he twisted like broken fingers, snapping it back, forcing it into a distortion that dropped their own damnation from their lips like the sweetest loyalty.

There was the white beach he shed their innocence upon, pulling it up from their chests like the chambers of a heart. There was the moment their trust in him became a mockery and he pulled them down into the shipwreck he’d become to lie a ruin with him on the ocean bottom because how could they defeat Morgoth? How could they kill a god when Fëanor had spent those last years in Valinor searching and searching for a way and coming up empty?

There were the graves he’d dug for them. And he could not bear it. Oh, the agony! He had killed them, his sons, his sons, he’d killed them. He couldn’t—he couldn’t—

“Father, tell me what is wrong?” Maedhros took him into his arms like a child, and Fëanor didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve this love that somehow still beat for him in Maedhros’ chest beyond all reason, reaching past all the crimes he’d committed against those dearest to him.

He could not bear it. 

“Stay with me. Please, Father.”

He must bear it. Maedhros needed him to, his sons needed him to. He must hold firm to sanity though it was like standing within the burning heat of a forge-fire. He writhed against it, mind twisting, trying to escape and flee back into the false-comfort of madness, but he breathed in his son’s scent and forced himself to be strong. He would slay himself if only he could free them from what he had done, but he could not, so he would give them everything he had left.

“I am here,” he whispered.

Maedhros’ arms tightened about him. “Do no leave us again, please, Father. Whatever you need, whatever will anchor you to this world…” Maedhros’ mouth brushed across the corner of his own, offering.

Fëanor closed his eyes. His son was a thousand times the better man then he, far far more than he deserved. “I love you,” he whispered. But the words were no longer enough. How could love cover this?

Maedhros pulled back to meet his eyes. He smiled, soft and full of sadness and knowledge. “I know. I know, Father. And I—” A wet sound swallowed the words. Maedhros’ eyes squeezed shut, a tear leaking out. “I will always love you. And forgive you.”

A sob tore itself like a claw from Fëanor’s chest. His nails bit into his palms, down down, press the punishment into the skin, draw blood, wish they were knives to cut to the bone, make it _hurt_. He could not speak, throat aching, mind bucking, screaming for escape, but hold tight to the reigns: his sons needed him.

Maedhros took him by the wrists, pulling his fists into his lap, and uncurled them. He brought Fëanor’s abused palms up to his lips and kissed them, one kiss for each angry mark. “Please, Father,” he whispered. “Be kind to yourself, for my sake.”

Fëanor’s breath shook. “What I have done to you and your brothers—”

“You did not force us to swear. You did not force us to follow you every step since Tirion –through Alqualondë —you did not force us.”

“Do not absolve me,” Fëanor’s voice was quiet but fierce, eyes burning up from the inside out. “Do not take a single thread of blame onto yourself! The fault is mine. Wholly mine.”

Maedhros shook his head, thumbs caressing the calluses on the heel of Fëanor’s palm. “No. The blame is on Morgoth’s shoulders, and the Valar’s. That is where it lies with heaviness. I will not say you did not make mistakes, just as we did, just as all of our people did who allowed our desperation to move us at Alqualondë. I do not absolve any of us for that great mistake. But do not take my brothers and my choices onto your own shoulders.”

Maedhros’ hands were warm and firm about his. Alive. And damn the Oath, damn Morgoth, damn the Valar, Fëanor would not lie down and accept the inevitable death of his sons! Nothing was inevitable, nothing was impossible. He would find a way to kill Morgoth and fulfill the Oath and save his sons. He _would_.

Fëanor’s eyes flashed with new purpose. He was not one to give up no matter how steep the road. He would save his sons or tear the world down trying. The Valar thought to place a Curse on his House and people? Fëanor had laughed in their faces. Morgoth had sought to fit a fancy collar about his neck. Fëanor had proved himself unchainable.

He would not surrender now, though all the Powers of the world gathered against him and his. He needed a weapon to kill a god. Well, he still had his mind and his hands and his sons at his back. Together they would find a way to kill gods.

“Something has caught fire inside you.”

Fëanor squeezed Maedhros’ hands before releasing them and striding with purpose to one of the chests holding journal after journal of jotted down inspiration, carefully preserved research, and compiled experiments (failed and successful). Maedhros knew not to pester him with questions as he shuffled through them, seeking his most private and recent journals.

Coming up with the treasures, he carried them to the table, clearing the maps and scrolls in a great sweep of his arm, the excitement building in him. This felt right, clean as a gasp of mountain air. Unlocking the secrets of the universe was a battle he could, _would_ , come out victorious from. He always did. It was only a matter of time and tenacity.

Maedhros picked up one of the journals as Fëanor sat absentmindedly, nearly missing the chair because he could not pause to find it as he flipped to a fresh page in the latest journal, picking up a quill. He did not snatch his work from his son’s hands, never his sons.

Maedhros frowned as he read. “This…what is this?”

Fëanor’s quill did not pause in its furious scratching as he flicked the offered diagram a quick glance. “An element’s structure.” He didn’t have time for more, his mind racing ahead. Maedhros would understand in a moment once he read on.

Fëanor had suspected for some time that the key to defeating a Vala lay in the building blocks of the world, more ancient than the measuring of time for they were here before the Valar first entered Arda. 

Years ago, Fëanor sought knowledge from Aulë in the Vala’s forges. There he learned of Arda’s birth. She had been a ball of minerals, atmosphere, and what Aulë named cellular-level life. From this the Valar shaped the surface world as they knew it. 

In hushed whispers Aulë imparted the knowledge of the deeper structures of the world, which were the basis of all matter, long after the other smiths departed from the forge. Aulë would find reasons to delay Fëanor’s departure, using the temptation of further, more advanced teaching, to lure him in. Fëanor believed at first the hand brushing up against his side, skimming his arm, daring to run through his hair, had been the accident Aulë passed them off as. He remembered feeling a vague discomfort, but the hunger for knowledge had over-ridden it. He had not yet learned how to spot the glint of lust in another’s eyes. One day Aulë made his intentions unmistakable, there could be no accident in the way he pushed Fëanor down against the work table, wanting him then and there. But before that day when Fëanor walked out of Aulë’s forges never to return, he had gleaned many secrets never before shared with one of the Children, secrets the other Ainur loathed to part with.

Curufin and Caranthir followed him furthered into the paths of science, and to them, and others of a similar bend of mind, he’d imparted the deep secrets of the world. Maedhros had not followed those studies through into the highest level, but his sharp mind grasped the new knowledge quickly.

Maedhros placed his finger in the journal, marking his place, as Fëanor came up for breath. “You plan to forge some sort of weapon by manipulating the structures of elements? It seems a stretch, Father.”

“I need to conduct some experiments…” Fëanor faded out of the conversation as the next idea pounced. He spent some time chasing it down to its tail, before surfacing again.

Maedhros hadn’t picked up the journal again, but taken a seat on the table beside him, and watched him with a wistful smile. When Fëanor blinked at him, as if surprised to find his son with him, Maedhros leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss into his father’s cheek. Fëanor brushed the back of his fingers along the line of Maedhros’ jaw. His hand trembled. They held each other’s gazes for a long moment, eyes naked and tender with love, before Maedhros sat straight again. 

“Should I fetch Curufin for you?” Maedhros’ smile held a tease this time. 

Fëanor’s mouth lifted in a faint, almost smile. The expression felt foreign on his mouth. He was out-of-practice with smiles. “No, it will be…some time before I am ready to share my ideas and begin testing them.” Weeks? Months? Years? No. He must not think like that. He would not give into the despair. He would find a way to save them.

Maedhros slid from his perch. “Well then, I will leave you to them. Curufin is no doubt cursing my absence by now.” Maedhros’ hand landed in a farewell on Fëanor’s shoulder, but paused there. “Father.” Fëanor’s whole attention snapped to his son’s face, hearing a fold in Maedhros’ voice. “You are not still thinking of burning the ships, are you?”

Fëanor’s hand covered his son’s, squeezing it, wishing to press all the sincerity of his promise into Maehdros’ skin. “No. I swear that folly is gone from me.” Maedhros let out a breath like he’d been holding it for a year. “I am sending them back, just like we planned. You will see Fingon soon. I promise.”

Maedhros’ eyes shone a little too-bright, but all the more beautiful, like liquid starlight. “Thank you, Father. I—thank you.”

Fëanor’s arm went around Maedhros’ slender waist, pulling him close and burying his face in Maedhros’ stomach. Maedhros’ hand dropped into his hair, fingers carding in and cradling his father’s skull.

“It will be different now,” Fëanor swore. “I am myself again.” 

He pulled back and Maedhros’ smile met him. It was like walking into the loveliest rose garden, being met by the headiest fragrance in the world and a vibrancy of colorful delight. Its light gave him hope. Within that light it became an easy thing to find a retuning smile inside him. All was not darkness and despair and regret flown past repair. Here was life and a future in which his sons would learn how to laugh with the sweet-honey of the carefree again, and build a new world under the singing light of the Silmarils, birthing something beautiful out of darkness.

When Maedhros left, Fëanor did not fear. His sons, his loyal friends and followers, awaited him on the tent flap’s other side. He was not alone, and he was not without hope. 

He plunged into his work with a fresh determination to succeed. He could taste the first breath of victory.

In the middle of an idea spiraling out to the edges of reality (but pursued none the less), the need to compose a list of his current weapons, tools, and people’s potential strengths stuck him. He pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. Yes, it would ground him to see, put down in ink, their many advantages. As he worked his way down the list the Palantíri found there place there, and he determined to investigate the length of their sight. Now.

He retrieved one of the major Seeing-stones, settling it gently onto the table, and threw off the velvet coverlet. The sphere caught all the lamplight into its dark belly and reflected it back so that it looked like a cosmos dwelt within.

He took the stone between his hands, and focused his mind. He should have done this the moment they crossed into Endor, if for no other reason than to catch a first glimpse of these new lands now that the Valar’s blinding shields had been left behind on the sea’s other side. But he had a more strategic use for the stone now.

He sent a pulse of Power running through his fingertips into the stone, and sent it seeking. He rode the rushing tide of Power like a wave. Land rolled under him, the slopes of the mountains that consumed the Eastern sky, and down again, more valleys and rivers and hills, the shimmering of starlight on a lake, the hulking shape of another mountain range, and then a flat plain, stretching far as an ocean to the east, but the northern sky was blotted out by a triplet of peaks belching black smoke, and then, as he rushed towards them, a spit of lava leapt up, a shock of vibrant, molten red in a world of silver and night. Gates, so massive they looked like they’d been raised by the hands of giants, seemed to spring out of the misting dark to meet his reaching mind with the clang of metal and the denial of ancient enchantment. He could not breach them. But he had a location now where the murderer sulked. One day he would throw down these gates into the dirt and march through, his challenge scorching the walls of Morgoth’s bolt-hole like fire. Morgoth would tremble before him. Death would greet the one who had introduced its cold sting to the Elves with the familiarity of an old enemy and drag Morgoth down into its embrace.

His task done, Fëanor made to disconnect his mind from the Palantir’s sight, but when one worked with the deep magics, one must open themselves to its Power, and in so doing open themselves to the world around them. This unfolding of self brought the strands of the Song close to the surface, leaving the mind vulnerable to the touch of this most ancient Power that shifted like the bulk of an immense body, a slow turn through centuries.

The Song knotted inside him, pulling him under, and sucked him into a vision of foresight: Curufinwë’s body stretched upon a rack, the skin pulled off him in strips, dissected like an animal. The sound in the back of his throat, so raw and broken he could no longer scream. Maedhros stood upon the brink of a great chasm, steam whipping up his tattered cloak and matted hair as the red glow of the Earth’s blood played a sinister game on the skin of his face. But his mouth wore a smile that might have been peaceful if it wasn’t so empty, if his eyes were not unrecognizable. And then Fëanor was forced to watch, helpless, crying out, as Maedhros jumped, and any illusion of peace ripped away until only the _agony_ remained. Fingolfin stumbled, the land broken under him. He looked like a star in shinny armor, a sword of light in his hand, but his eyes bore a weight beyond endurance. And then Fëanor was forced to watch the massive, black foot catch Fingolfin like a cat trapping a mouse. The sound of snapping bone, the wetness of soft innards splattering, the _scream_.

Fëanor stumbled back, hand upsetting the Palantir and sending it rolling across the table and smacking into the earth. He groped, blindly, chest so tight he couldn’t breathe. His mouth tasted of blood. He collapsed to his knees, and curled up around the horror inside. He hunched there, struggling for breath, choking on it, knees caging his stomach, hands grabbing fistfuls of hair and yanking.

He heard laughter, malicious and full of teeth. Through the cracks of denial (no, no, no that was not how it was going to happen, it couldn’t be, please, please) slithered shadows, snake-like, hissing in his ears. 

He was going to slay a god? Laughter, the capricious sound raking itself down his back. He was going to _save_ them (mockery wrapped so thick about the word it could have collected flies). He was going to defy an Oath he already knew held Power like the gravity of the Earth behind it? He was _stronger_ than the combined wills of all the Valar who had thrown their weight upon the Doom cursing his House and people, already working towards its fruition?

His thoughts turned on him like jackals. He did not know where his ended and Morgoth’s began.

_Fëanor_. The shadows along the walls lengthened, inching closer like the crawl of skeletal hands.

_Fëanor_. The wisp of breath across his ear, the smell of heat, the deep metals of the earth, and something new: decay. The fair mask peeled off from the monster beneath. 

He curled in a ball, folded in like a fetus. He could not bear to live in the world he’d glimpsed. He must ensure it never came to pass.

He had a weapon to build, and it didn’t matter if it was impossible, it didn’t matter if he feared it was the work of decades, he had to build it. He had to save his sons, and his precious, brilliant grandson. Maedhros and Curufinwë could not die like that. They couldn’t be allowed to die at all.

There had been a little boy once who Fëanor had loved with blue eyes and hair like heaven who looked at Fëanor like his words were jewels and he was all that mattered in the world. But someone had stolen the little boy away, like they stole Father and Mother, and were now seeking to steal his sons. 

He had to keep the little boy safe. The little boy wouldn’t be safe where Morgoth slithered in the shadows and loomed on the horizon. Fëanor needed an ocean between the little boy and death.

He rose, eyes fever-bright, burning up. He stumbled towards the tent flap, righted himself, and found the stride of conviction, powerful and sure. He had to burn the ships. He had to save the little boy from the sound of cracking bones. If the little boy crossed the ocean he would go out like a fallen star, burning beauty and despair as he crashed into the earth. And there he would lie, crushed in the mud, never to shine again.

Fëanor’s voice rang out, giving orders as his feet carried him back to the boats bobbing like dead bodies on the waves. Someone was catching at his sleeve: silver eyes, copper hair, pleading mouth. But no, no, he had to do this for Maedhros’ sake. He had to keep them all safe. Couldn’t Maedhros see that?

The ships burned, and something coiled to suffocation in his chest eased. He found Maedhros turned away, hands covering his face, the wind snapping up his hair and swirling it out like a horse’s mane. His beautiful, precious son. Fingon had never deserved him. Fëanor told Maedhros so, making sure Maedhros knew his brothers’ love for him, Fëanor’s love for him, would never turn on him, never forsake him. He did not understand the look Maedhros turned on him. Not hate. No. Not even resentment, just…sorrow. Fëanor reached out and gathered his dear one in his arms. In time Maedhros would understand. Fingon had never been worthy, but at least he was safe. Fëanor had given Maedhros that.

*

Fingolfin struggled to hold onto the tenderness and protectiveness that had welled in him towards Fëanor so the resentment would not corrode his veins and the knife would not sink so deep, but it had been months now since he’d caught that glimpse of vulnerability. 

This was what he saw: Fëanor’s eyes glinting hard as gemstones, blood in his hair, blood on Fingolfin’s face as his muscles shook with strange spasms and his mind pulled sluggish as they stood on docks littered with the slaughtered –Teleri and Noldor alike—Fëanor claiming the ships Fingolfin and his son and daughter had just _killed_ for were now barred from stepping foot on as Fëanor sent his people to man them; Fëanor’s eyes dark and narrowed as he heard of Finarfin’s abandonment of their cause, and the way those eyes had slid to Fingolfin, suspicious, untrusting, even after everything, _everything_ ; Fëanor’s eyes clashing with his where he sat across from Fingolfin in a space that was no more than a few yards but might as well have been the distance of a mountain chasm, arrogance smirking next to the madness and no vulnerability within those eyes, with Fëanor’s sons pointed out in two lines like spears from his sides, his lords finishing the semi-circle of chairs, and Fingolfin’s sons, daughter, nephews, niece, and lords closing the circle on the other side as their two hosts came together for yet another council meeting that would end in shouts and words starting as cloaks but ending as unsheathed daggers as both their hosts clung to each other as they danced a strange waltz about the ships, neither wanting the other to sail to Endor and leave the other host behind, distrust and more distrust in narrowed eyes watching narrowed eyes.

This was what Fingolfin saw now: the light of a fleet of ships staining the dark horizon like blood. His heart should have been hardened to it. This betrayal should have been just another loss in the sea of a hundred others. But it wasn’t. It cut him on its razor edges. 

The bitterness dug deep. The remembered vulnerability in silver eyes allowed the forgiveness to come and put a stopper on the threatening hate against Fëanor for walking away, leaving him, after everything, _everything_. But forgiveness was not forgetting. Forgiveness was not reconciliation.

Fingolfin chose the Helcaraxë and led his people into a nightmare because the idea of turning back was long gone. It hadn’t been an option for Fingolfin since Alqualondë. He would not go back to grovel at the Valar’s feet for forgiveness. He would not throw himself on their fallible (malicious) judgment or trust them with the fate of Fingon and Aredhel who had drawn their swords, charging to the Fëanorions’ defense just as he had. But most of all, he would cross the ice because Fëanor and he were not _finished_.

(Fëanor, you bastard, how could you? _You shall lead and I will follow. Half-brother in blood, full brother in heart shall I be._ ) 

Fëanor, a curse upon the Noldor’s lips, betrayer, betrayer, betrayer, never to be forgotten, never forgiven. But Fingolfin would forgive him everything if he would only come back to him.

Childhood memories were strange things. An Elf was not bore with a perfect memory; they grew into it as they grew into their body’s maturity. Fingolfin had forgotten something he’d never know he was missing. The memory slammed into him after Fëanor was gone, gone, gone. 

This memory, despite the pivotal (perhaps the most important of them all) place it held in his life, had been forgotten, buried under a thousand others of little importance by comparison, but jamming this one out by sheer numbers.

He remembered it suddenly, brutally, like an axe falling upon his neck and his life spinning out of control with the shock of what he’d forgotten (How could he have _ever_ forgotten this?). But he had. It wasn’t until Fëanor was long gone, dead, though he did not know it yet, that he remembered the event that should have shaped his life. Did shape his life though he had not known how it played into the events that followed. 

It was a simple moment. Fingon had Guilin huddled under a pile of blankets with him playing a game of cards to take the boy’s mind off his toes and fingers and nose so frozen and aching Guilin sobbed into his father’s arms. Something mindless transformed into a vehicle of hope and a means of survival. It was an act so Fingon-ish Fingolfin had to smile watching them, despite Fëanor’s most recent, most crushing of betrayals with the ships.

Guilin’s soft, childish voice acted like a shove off a cliff: “What’s obtuse mean, Father? I heard Cousin Angrod calling Uncle Turgon that.”

Fingolfin never heard Fingon’s reply. He was hearing Fëanor’s voice, not yet settled into the deep tones it would acquire as a man, calling him an ‘obtuse sprog,’ but there had been a smirk half-fond half-exasperation on his face. He saw Fëanor wide-eyed as he could never remembered seeing him in life, before, like a torn veil, a bucket of ice water dumped over his head, a blow to the gut as the whole, sordid, precious, trembling memory fell upon him:

( _“I’m going to marry you when I grow up.”  
“I am not playing one of your foolish games.”  
“You have to promise, Fëanor. You have to promise to marry me.”  
“Very well, **Fingolfin**.”   
“You have to kiss me now. Like grownups do when they get married.” _)

He remembered other looks and furious words that hadn’t made sense at the time without this last piece of the puzzle to give them all clarity. He remembered how Fëanor had left only a few days after The Kiss. 

Fëanor turned, back swallowed by a sunrise, as he left home for Mahtan’s forges with the excuse of wanting to delve deeper into smith-craft. No, it hadn’t just been an excuse, but Finwë had been as surprised as everyone else to hear his proud son suddenly wanted to apprentice himself to another. It had been a reason well-seasoned with running away. A confused youth, still years shy of his majority, trying to escape the horror of becoming aroused by his child-brother’s kiss.

Fingolfin remembered the argument he’d had with Fëanor after he’d finally returned, years later, a red-haired woman with freckles and hands calloused by forge-work on his arm. An argument Fingolfin had never known what he’d done to deserve or why Fëanor took such offence at his simple words.

( _“I would wait. I would. Ask me to wait, to not marry her, and I might be persuaded.”  
“You’re so dramatic. As if you needed to draw out the breaking of ten-thousand hearts! You know half of Tirion fancies themselves your future wife. The other half can’t stand you, but—”  
“I do not care about any of them! Give me your answer!”  
“You should marry her as soon as you like if you love her. I don’t understand why you care for anyone’s disapproval about your ages, you’ve never cared before.”  
“I do not care. I will marry Nerdanel tomorrow if I like.”  
“That settles it then.”   
“You do not care? You have nothing to say?”   
“It’s really none of my business who you marry. Why would it be?”_)

Fëanor walked away in frigid silence after throwing about words like fire, eyes so hot they burned holes in Fingolfin skin, his heart. It hadn’t made any sense at the time, but now, looking back with this puzzle piece of memory fitted with brutal ease into the story of his life, it made far far too much sense.

Betrayals and broken promises now lay like bodies between them months after Fëanor had left him like trash, and all the memories would amount to nothing in the end because Fëanor was already dead, dead, dead and it didn’t matter how many times Fingolfin thought of him over the years of the White Nightmare, with rage and wonder and longing and love and ‘Please don’t leave me’ screamed, begged, whispered, sobbed at Fëanor’s back. It was all meaningless in the end because Fëanor wasn’t coming back.

But Fingolfin didn’t know that yet. He woke up with Fëanor flashing behind his eyelids from dreams of Fëanor’s smell, a swing of glossy hair, a perpetually smirking mouth, and his eyes, his beautiful, beautiful silver eyes looking down into Fingolfin, all the way down into his heart and _seeing_ him, seeing him and smiling at what he found deep inside Fingolfin. 

Fingolfin led his people across the Helcaraxë with a fire they looked up at and gathered strength from. He let them think it was vengeance blazing across his face as he looked East. He could hardly tell them differently. But he knew, he knew. He was coming for him, Fëanor, he was coming for him and it wasn’t with a sword in his hands. It was with a kiss in his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is part The Price of Eternity series. While I feel that this story can stand alone, if you would like to read more (what happened with Maedhros and Fingon, Fingolin when he finally found out Feanor was dead, the fate of the rest of the House of Finwe, ect) you can find it here at Faerie: http://www.faerie-archive.com/viewuser.php?uid=113


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